A couple of weeks ago, I was at the doctor’s office — at least, I trust she was a genuine, fully credentialed MD; she hardly looked old enough to be out of college. As she reviewed my paperwork, she squealed “Oh look! You have a birthday coming up! Oooo, you’re turning fifty!” Her face was suddenly filled with awe. In a low, reverent voice, she asked “So… how does it feel, turning fifty?”
“Well”, I replied, “when I was — your age — fifty seemed scandalous, a long way off, and the longer off, the better. It seemed much too close to the grave for my liking, and nothing I was in a hurry to reach. However, from the perspective of forty nine, fifty looks great!”
“Oh wow, oh goody, gee that is great! Great, great! So! Let’s go ahead and schedule that colonoscopy, shall we?!”
* * * * * * * *
Well, the test was last Thursday, and I must say, it is a procedure to be neither coveted nor feared. I won’t say what’s the worst part, but the best part was definitely the Demerol. The “doctor” came bouncing into the procedure room and directed the anesthesiologist, “Give him one of the pinkies and two of the blue-ies!” I asked the anesthesiologist if I was likely to experience memory loss during the procedure. She mumbled something, I blinked and I was in post-op.
Apparently I had already been in post-op for quite a long time, raving to my wife about the excellencies, beauty and youth of the medical staff. The first thing I clearly remember is asking if Demerol is available in a six-pack for carry-out. My wife and I agreed later that it’s a good thing it is not; if it were, I don’t think anyone would ever get out of bed. I’m sure I wouldn’t.