Coming Down from a Colonoscopy
Temporarily high on life
Welcome to Mess & Noise. In my last post, I delved into the dark nerdery behind the New Right and reviewed a roast beef sandwich. I recently published a guidebook for Perimenopause, and I’m dropping a new book about disagreeing at work in September. With a paid subscription you get all my books, some swag, and you can call yourself a micro-benefactor.
I had my first colonoscopy last week. It was another reminder that I’m halfway done with life and uncomfortable screenings are required now until death. It was also surprisingly awesome.
I won’t walk you through the process because Anne Helen Petersen’s detailed guide is the last word on the subject. Her post does such a good job demystifying and normalizing the procedure, you might find yourself oversharing with your neighbors about the poopy evening ahead of you.
I was still nervous about one thing though, and no first-person account could assuage my fear: the anesthesia.
Yes, you get knocked out for colonoscopies, which is terrifying for a control freak like me. I can’t get on a plane without wanting to interview and breath-test the pilot, so agreeing to get roofied while someone literally pokes around my butt is a goddamned nightmare.
Luckily my appointment was early in the morning and I was so tired from running to the bathroom all night the prep, I almost looked forward to the nap to end all naps.
I traveled to an NYU outpost on Delancey Street, dehydrated and sleep deprived. The crack-of-dawn cab ride on the Lower East Side triggered instant Aughts Nostalgia. I could count the number of places I’d danced on tables. Sometimes dressed as a chicken, sometimes not.
Sidenote: In other chicken-related nostalgia, Koo Koo Roo is coming back, which might be the nudge we need to move to L.A.
Not to sound like an #ad but NYU’s bedside manner is fucking five star. I know this because I delivered both my kids and had broken leg surgery with their doctors. But this time I was in no mood for small talk. Even though the anesthesiologist was warm and reassuring when he said (this is a direct quote), “You’re gonna love this anesthesia.”
He was correct. It’s called propofol — the Michael Jackson drug — and the beauty is the before and after.
Before, I was awake and nervous. I had been wheeled into an exam room where a humongous monitor hung on the wall, playing a nature-themed screen saver. A preview before the main feature (my rectum). This really was a screening!
Suddenly I was no longer awake. Right after that, I was gently roused from the best sleep of my life. I can’t recall anything from the sleep itself, but I woke up to a rhythmic wave softly coursing through me and my aura. Yes, my aura was there. She was blue but also gold, and I felt like I’d been napping on a beach all day without getting a sunburn.
“I was dreaming!” I said to the anesthesiologist.
“You were dreaming?”
“Yeah, I’m just trying to manage everything, you know? Kids and work and life, it’s crazy!”
The anesthesiologist disappeared and I was back in bed #6 with a post-op nurse who…I guess just sits and chats with high people all day?
“What a crazy job, putting people to sleep all day! I’m a writer, it’s low stakes!”
That’s when the nurse became my therapist, life coach, and career counselor:
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said. “Writing was pretty high stakes for me when I was in grad school. I had things in my head but I didn’t know how to put them on paper.”
Then he held my gown closed so my butt didn’t show as I walked to the bathroom.
*
When I returned to my recovery spot I overheard the anesthesiologist introducing himself to the next patient in bed #7, so I yelled over the curtain, “You’re gonna love it! It’s like a 5-day vacation in 20 minutes!” You know, to help him out with his job.
The anesthesiologist kind of apologized to the new patient on my behalf.
I shouted “Hi!” to every hospital employee who passed my open curtain, like my kids do whenever they see anyone anywhere. This must be how it feels to be 4 or 6. Everything is amazing, anyone could be your next best friend.
Soon I was dressed, led to the elevator, and spat outside in the sun where my husband was in our car waiting for me.
I said, “Heeeeeeeyyyy, what’s up?” and kind of flopped into the passenger seat.
He drove out of the parking lot and stopped at a crosswalk where an older pedestrian hesitated. From behind our rolled up windows he said, “Go. You have the right of way, just GO.”
This messed with my vibe so I set him straight. His consciousness, I mean.
“Easy! We’re all out here doing the best we can.”
And for 12 minutes after that, it was a wonderful world.
Everything was a miracle: The Battery Tunnel, the helicopters over the East River, 20-minute anesthesia naps, tiny devices that take high-res photos of your colon, people stuck in space, everyone throughout history who focused and did tedious work that led to breakthroughs, which led to standard practice, which led to every modern marvel we take for granted so any Joey Bag O’ Donuts can move, see, and fly like a Greek god every day of the week.
It was time for coffee and an Egg McMuffin.
We yelled our order through a crackly drive-thru speaker twice before we pulled back onto the street. An Audi cut us off without using its blinker. From behind our rolled up windows I said the driver could go straight to hell, to which my husband replied, “Phoebe’s back.”
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Hellos and thanks to new subscribers Bobbi B., J.S., J.R., and Carla K. Extra special thanks to Devin, Peggy, and Jack for upgrading to a paid subscription! I’ll try to feature fewer adventures in gastroenterology in future posts, but no promises.
Haha! Happy you had so much fun!