While sifting through the mail my attention was captured by a glossy magazine in a cellophane bag with a couple of “older” people on the cover. As I thumbed through there were ads pushing various products specific to that demographic and articles about pros and cons of various drugs, all with potential side effects worse than the condition they’re taken for. No wonder there were so many drugs…each tried to undo the havoc wreaked by another in a futile attempt to get one’s body chemistry back to original state. And what were all the carefree, smiling faces so happy about? Their new dentures? Their new hearing aids? Their newly activated four-hour erections? Those ghastly images and overly aggressive activist propaganda kept me speed-flipping to find somethingworthwhile to read. Not that I was seeking a provocative centerfold since my erections come and go in a flash unless provoked for longer (but never four hours, assisted or not), but new teeth or ears and erectile dysfunction were of no interest. Despite my short attention span, patience prevailed and I came to the lead article, “Twenty Reasons You Should Not Mix Quaaludes and Viagra”, a blunt warning about the dangers of haphazard senior drug inhalation. It was not convincing so I put the magazine aside to check the rest of my mail and spotted a post card from a doctor’s office which said, “Please call our office, it is time”. Time for what, I wondered till I saw the doctor’s name.

Going to any doctor was not something I looked forward to especially if there’s nothing bothering me. And I didn’t think it was time yet but my gastroenterologist and AARP were hunting me down, with the latter easier to ignore since all they wanted was 16 bucks for membership and their monthly glossy. Ignoring the doctor was another matter…it was colonoscopy time and the sequel to “Fantastic Voyage” was soon to be filmed in a studio that remarkably resembled my upper and lower intestines, only with an unmanned ship. 

The prep was 24 hours of clear liquids followed by an enema, which did not promise to be fun, with the procedure promising a better time since I’d be sedated. My doctor did not buy into my mixing the enema powder with vodka to relax before beginning interval training of running up and down the stairs to and from the bathroom providing the most privacy to allow every ounce of liquid and matter not part of me to be involuntarily forced out in peace. All to get a pristine view to ensure whatever was left behind belonged there and/or would not become troublesome at some point. My cardio conditioning proved excellent and my sphincter muscles did a great job.  

The test of a real man is to not feel one’s masculinity being threatened by a foreign object inserted into one’s ass to embark on a slow northerly trip through one’s midsection. The approach and thinking should be strictly clinical and I’d be worried if there was any enjoyment derived, especially by the person wearing the rubber gloves. I had no weird quasi-sexual fantasy thing hoping that object was being manipulated by someone with other intent…not that I’m concerned about my masculinity, but it would still be disconcerting if I deemed having my prostate or other innards massaged enjoyable. And the “Alien” dinner table scene wasn’t a ringing endorsement for random objects wandering checked or unchecked through my digestive tract. But if that object made its way up to my mouth perhaps a dental exam could be put on my tab. Just thinking about maximizing the bang for my copay buck.

It was game time.

None the worse for wear and happy to have shed a couple of pounds, I was ready for the “easy”  part, which would include drugs and a brief nap, a decent reward for the prior evening’s efforts. On the reclining seat waiting for the IV to kick in my mind drifted to the egg salad sandwich awaiting me upon my return to consciousness as I slowly rolled to the left upon command.

Before I knew it I was awake. It was brief and uneventful, even anticlimactic. Not even time to dream or fantasize. Fuck…. All that anticipation and nothing but a clean bill of health, certainly better than “Uh, there’s a bit of a problem….”, at which point it could have gotten ugly and not so funny in a hurry.        

The procedure was not a search party sent out on a whim but brought on by my GP, who I hope will not become a major presence in my life. He’s a nice guy, perhaps too nice and too mellow but I keep him around since my history with doctors is not great and I’m tired of breaking them in. I’m tired of filling out medical history forms delineating every disease and condition I and my parents and sister have ever and never had, as if there’s correlation between their history, my history and the amount of medical attention I might require. My non-surgical medical history is somewhat ordinary….typical stuff like mumps, measles, chicken pox, stiff necks, ether trip during tonsillectomy at age six and my eyes changing sizes at age 14, so no red flags or need to be placed into the hypochondriac or high-risk pool.  Another reason for keeping him around is to avoid getting someone who wears XS-sized rubber gloves….hands that size are way too small and can probably go where hands don’t normally belong.     

I deem doctors to be commodities until the time there’s really something wrong, at which point I’d get serious and hunt down the best one. I’ve spent more time looking for a haircutter, sneakers and sunglasses than doctors so maybe my priorities haven’t necessarily been right.    My presence, sensibilities and thought processes haven’t changed much and people often look at me as though there’s something not quite right, which may be the case. But I’m comfortable in my own skin and that’s all that matters.

But I’ll never get comfortable with somebody else’s skin attached to somebody else’s hand manipulating an eyeball on a rod through my system looking for problems. Granted it’s better to find something before it finds you, but I quit playing hide and seek years ago, somewhere between that tonsillectomy ether trip featuring puke green swirls and my maiden nitrous oxide trip at 11 when I watched rows of Nazi soldiers goose-stepping and screaming out the march cadence in guttural German. And the idea of surrendering my dignity with no reward is disturbing. After the tonsils, it was ice cream for a week…after the dentist, it was discovering the merits of being stoned, but a colonoscopy didn’t leave me with anything, egg salad aside, to fondly reminisce about. “Congratulations, you’re OK” is nice but expected.

So all is well until the next post card when the quest will begin anew like an intermittent, bizarre version of the Crusades. Hopefully all will be good again but the worst case would be my gastro  playing “Up Periscope” longer, deeper and more often, in which case I just might mix some ‘ludes and Viagra and take my chances no matter what that magazine says.