March 2013
I went to my GI doctor today to see about my third colonoscopy. Pretty routine stuff by now: I’ve survived two already. I’ve been going to his practice since forever. Once he fixed my H. Pilori and twice got rid of polyps on my colon. I’m sixty-six now. We joke around a lot, talk about investments (how good his are, how stupid mine are), our wives, our kids. He looks a bit like he wears a Groucho Marx mask; you know, eyebrows, nose, mustache. Funny guy.
Before the outpatient operation of a colonoscopy, you usually go for a “pre-meet” to get ready: you talk about scheduling, the importance of flushing out the organ, warnings about not drinking red juices, or sneaking any food; they take your vital signs, you watch the video, you have a chat with your doctor, etc. Because, if you don’t comply with these directives, things are going to get messy, and you don’t want that.
I showed up for the prep session at the appointed hour with my wife, Manya. She goes everywhere with me these days, mostly because she is good company, and I need a witness at all times. The nurse took us in right away, as soon as I had filled out the forms, and told us to hang up our coats behind the door. Ignoring all of my feeble attempts at humor, even with Manya helping me with her wisecracks about finding my brain tumor in my colon, the nurse quickly and efficiently took my temperature, pulse, blood pressure (through the shirt that I had started to take off), weight, height, turned on the colonoscopy video, and left the room. We never saw her again.
I had seen this video already: the actors had these unforgettable southern accents, including the doctor actor. I always thought the guy playing the patient was too young to be having colonoscopies already, but then again, the food down south must be pretty rich, a lot of pork and such. Then the PA breezed in, a young dark-haired woman with the strangest long, straight bangs across her forehead. I could have sworn I had already seen her in the video, tuning up the tools for the colonoscopy demonstration. She interrupted the video, and did a lot of thumping and listening to my chest and back. By this time I was down to just my pants and socks and shirt-tail hanging out, trying to crack impossibly inane jokes, when the PA suddenly turned the video back on and left the room. We never saw her again either.
A minute or so later (so far the visit had lasted only as long as the video, playing in the background), my doctor came in, greeted us amiably and went to fetch our coats hanging behind the door. That was odd, I thought. I had been looking forward to his examination, and our usual jokey talk about investments. I had hoped that the doctor would compliment me again on how good my liver felt, as he did the last time, but he didn’t do any of that chest and back thumping, or having me take deep breaths. Instead, he handed us our coats and said to follow him. All this happened so quickly, that I ran after him clutching my stuff, my shirt-tail hanging out, my feet only half into my loafers, slapping my way down the hall, where he deposited us into the office of the lady who does the scheduling. The doctor left almost immediately; yep, we never saw him again.
While trying to dress myself in her office (try tucking your shirt in while sitting and without undoing your belt), she instructed me on the procedure for purging my colon, while I tried a joke about the ‘high colonics.’ She wasn’t having any of that, directing me instead to the time and place of the procedure. When she finished, she pointed to the door that led out to the lobby. I tried vainly to say good-bye to everybody on our way out. Everyone in the office looked at me, completely astonished, as though I were the one who was insane. Once in the lobby, Manya helped me on with my shoes. I said to her that if I didn’t survive this colonoscopy, she should definitely get a pre-nup when she remarries, as well as a second opinion when she goes for her next colonoscopy.
Dr. Gordon finally committed suicide not long ago. I can’t imagine why he would do such a thing.
