Going under
"Good luck!"
I’m sitting in a hospital bed with my arse hanging out of a gown.
At first, I kept my underwear on because I’m always wary of taking my liberties a step too far.
These are my Larry David moments. I’m never quite sure what the protocol is and I don’t want to be the guy who miffs it, but I usually do.
Like when I go for a massage. I never know what the expectation is. Do I fully undress under the towel? Or is that inappropriate? Am I being offensive if I keep my underwear on? Does that insinuate I’m not trusting the masseuse? Is it predicated on the quality of the massage place? I go through the same mental tug of war every time.
Today, at the hospital, I proceeded with caution and wore my underwear underneath the gown. The thinking was that maybe I’d have an opportunity to remove that last layer later—who knows how long I’ll be waiting?—or maybe they’d do it for me.
But I also didn’t want to inconvenience the doctor with a pair of boxer briefs so I checked with the nurse when she popped her head in.
“Are you having a colonoscopy?” She asked, semi-rhetorically.
I nodded.
“Then how do you expect them to get in there?!”
She cracks herself up, closes the privacy curtain, and walks off.
So here I am, sprawled out on the hospital bed with my arse poking out the splits of the gown, tired, hungry, and sniffling away with a non-COVID head cold. Soon they’ll wheel me into a room before they insert a camera up my pooper and go exploring the depths of my innards like a deep-sea submarine searching for the lost city of Atlantis.
“I’ve been doing these since 2004,” I hear the doctor say to a patient behind another curtain.
I try to calculate how many asses that equates to but quickly get interrupted by the anesthetist–—an impossible word to spell without autocorrect.
He’s asking me all kinds of questions, I assume to ensure I’ll wake up from the deep sleep he’s about to put me in.
Full name.
Date of birth.
Medications.
“Any allergies or ailments I need to be aware of?”
“I have a cold, it’s not COVID, I tested, but I’m pretty stuffed up.”
“You have a cough?”
“Yeah”
“Anything coming up when you cough?”
I think about the last coughing fit I had and whether the small bit of phlegm counts.
“No.”
“Yeah, you’ll be fine. Ok, all looks good. Good luck!”
Good luck? Since when does luck have anything to do with the outcome of a minor medical procedure? This isn’t a game of Operation. Who says that before putting someone under? Didn’t all those years at university mean we don’t need to rely on luck?
Calm down, Allan, I think to myself. Pre-procedure nerves kicking in.
I re-adjust my gown and decide that’s not the right mental state to be in.
But what if my head cold affects the anesthesia? It’s a pretty hefty cold, too. My ears are blocked, my nose is stuffed up and my eyes are watering. It’s the kind of cold where everything feels fuzzy and a step or two slow.
I still have my phone on me, maybe I can do a quick Google search to see if I need to high-tail my bare arse out of here.
Before I can give it another thought, the nurse returns, and fires off her own set of questions.
Full name.
Date of birth.
Address.
Medications.
Illnesses.
Why we’re having this procedure today.
“Ok! You’re up next! We’ll be back in a few minutes to wheel you in.”
I take the final opportunity to blow my nose and clear the passage. I briefly look at the tissue and whisper a quick prayer that this ugly debris won’t cause my demise.
When the nurse returns, she’s with a porter, who wheels me into the room where a tall, chirpy lad is standing in front of a machine that beeps and hisses. He makes a few wisecracking jokes to lighten the mood, one of which he has to repeat because the nurses aren’t paying attention. They’re too busy working.
We’re about to go under. Deep into that darkness. Oh baby, my favorite part.
The anesthetist smiles and shoves some oxygen up my nose. Then he pricks my arm with a catheter to prep for the sleep juice.
I think for a moment if this man ever acknowledges the power he possesses. Every hour of every day, he sits in his raised chair, overlooking his kingdom of trusting patients who lay there helpless and hopeful, and one by one he knocks them out with the steady release of a clear liquid.
I’m sure there are some folks that get off on that kind of stuff.
I’m brought back into the moment but the nurse who’s buzzing around doing her final fixes and checks.
Once again, I confirm my name and date of birth.
The anesthetist riffs some banter with me and the nurse before they ask me to roll onto my side and stick my ass out.
My first attempt requires some adjustments.
“No, you really need to stick your butt out, else the doctor won’t be able to get in there.”
I wiggle my hips around further, prod my ass out like it’s a gift to the world, and lay there in what I like to think is an ‘active’ fetal position.
Ah dignity, I hardly knew ye.
“Enjoy the nap!” He says, before pressing go on a glorious stream of fluid that swims into my arm.
I count to ten to see how long I can last…
1-2…
GOODNIGHT!
Hi Al, I've been there myself a few too many times. You captured the bum-probe experience perfectly.
How was your nap? Great read.