My husband’s body reacts in most unusual ways to medication. Those lines and lines of obscure side effects written in miniscule print are added just for Dearly Beloved.
My man is one in a million.
Yesterday he had a colonoscopy. Let me preface by saying that he was pleased with the procedure, the staff, and the results. We have both had the test done by this group before, just in a different location.
I mean, building-wise, of course.
The waiting room of their current facility was designed for a fight-to-the-death game of Musical Chairs, only without any music. It’s small–no sofas or upholstered furniture– stackable chairs, arm to arm, circling the room and the lone table of old magazines. About 15 or so chairs in a room perhaps 12×12.
When we arrived, a woman with multiple tattoos, rings in her eyebrows, and a cellphone to her ear, dominated the room with her booming voice. Unless she was talking to someone outside the continental United States, those lungs of hers made any assistance from Verizon superfluous.
A little girl about 5 sat on the floor, coloring, while her older sister played some sort of loud, hand-held video game.
Got that? Small room, woman with J-Lo lungs waving her arms and yakking on the phone, video game going strong, and a wall TV tuned to a shoot-’em-up show on TNT .
CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?
She announced, “I better step outside to tell you this…” and the children followed, yelling, “MAMA! ” Mama stayed outside for a good thirty minutes, pacing and talking on the phone. The little girls came back in periodically to retrieve their Slurpees, return their Slurpees to the floor, get a toy, or just stand holding the door open.
Several more twosomes arrived and stepped over the cups and toys. At least two of them had phlegmy coughs. When Big Mama returned and immediately made another phone call I leaned over to DB and hissed, “When they call you back, ask if I can go with you.”
“Why? I’ll be fine.”
“Because I don’t want to sit here for two hours and listen to Mother of the Year.”
When they finally called for him, the nurse said she’d get me after she prepped him. By then the waiting room was full. One of the later arrivals sneezed loudly and announced to the room at large that the sneeze hurt his back.
Finally the nurse took me back to DB, who was all snug in his little nightie and fuzzy socks, covered with a blankie and hooked up to an IV cocktail of something pleasant. She told me that he’d be getting a type of truth serum, so to feel free to ask him whatever I wanted.
Logically, the IV should have made him groggy and quiet, so of course it made him hyper and chatty. He greeted me with, “The nurse says I have good legs.”
I stayed until they took him for his appearance on, as the nurse informed him, The Colon Channel.
Friends who know us call him the consummate gentleman… the least likely person to have called out cheerily, “Remember me?” when the doctor pulled up the sheet and gown to begin the procedure. It happened.
By the time it was over and the nurse came to get me a second time, she said–truly–“Just follow the noise.”
DB was sitting up drinking Ginger Ale with several of the staff members gathered around his bed, trading wisecracks. (No pun intended.)
I knew that he’d made an impression when the nurse told me that they’d been surprised when they found nothing, since “we expected to find his head up there.”
She showed me pictures in living color, not that I’d asked. Perhaps his mother….
When the doctor came in, he handed me a sticky note and said, “Here’s the map.”
On it was a line drawing and the words: EGGPLANT, M-SHU PORK, GINGER TOFU, STICKY DUMPLINGS.
HUH? You found WHAT???
Apparently, Mr. Chatty and the Doc had talked restaurants during “the show.”
DB now has an extensive repertoire of colon jokes, thanks to the nurses. We have two new restaurants to try, thanks to the Doc. They all gathered to bestow hugs and kisses, tell him goodbye and that they wished all their patients were this much fun.
Since they found nothing, he left with a good report card, so the next show won’t be for another ten years. Like a comet… but without the streak, I hope.