Colonoscopy

Chapter 1

Nine forty five. A.M.

I arrived fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. The hospital was eerily empty. Lights were dim and the day outside overcast coinciding with my tentative mood, a sombre grey. Snow threatened.

I stood in line at registration., the center of this particular branch of the bureaucratic wheel.
I looked up and down barren halls. Terrazzo floors narrowed off in several directions leading who knows where. Some culminated at pairs of imposing doors embossed with intimidating lettering. 'authorized personnel only'. Yikes. They didn't even capitalize it. My left eye twitched. I swallowed hard.

A thought, "is it still considered a line when you are the only one in it?' The receptionist gabbed on the phone, voice muffled behind the glass barricade. She hung up and disappeared through a door without looking at me. I was miffed, feeling ignored in my self importance. Moments later she returned, waved me over without looking.

'Health card.'

I had it ready. A sign above her spartan enclave read, 'Have Your Health Card Ready'.  I'm good at following rules. She read the card. 'This your real name?'

"Of course."

Her eyes narrowed, 'Notquite Oldfish?' she scoffed, as if expecting a prank.

"It's Oldish, and yes, that's me. Most people call me Not."

'Okay', she said. The kind of okay where the ay trails long and the pitch rises suggesting a level of uncertainty or suspicion.  'Okay Not,' she went on, 'I see you are registered in the system. Same address? Same phone number? Spouse?'

"Yes, yes, and yes."

'And what are you in for?' She made it sound like I committed a heinous crime and was about to be imprisoned or sent for execution.

"Colonoscopy," I mumbled.

'What?'

I repeated myself louder.

She didn't bat an eyelash, 'day surgery, down the hall, my left, your right. Come to the end. You'll see double doors with Day Surgery on the left side. There are some chairs there. Sit and wait until your name is called.' She handed me my health card and some forms to fill out.

"Yes Mam. Thank you Mam." I was twice her age and felt like a kid.

Chapter 2

A couple of months previous I had received by mail a letter, official looking yet curiously suspicious, as things can often be in these terse and highly technological times. I was tempted to act irrationally as I usually do and toss the thing into the trash. Instead I opened it as I walked up the gravel driveway. I announced my arrival as I entered the tiny vestibule that is our front door. "Hellooooo, I'm home. Guess what?"

'You're having a colonoscopy.'

I was taken aback. Stunned. "How'd you know?"

'I didn't. It just came out.'

As Fate and Havoc play their very annoying games it wasn't the first coincidence. The week before a friend asked, out of the blue, if I'd ever had a colonoscopy. I wasn't sure what she was angling at so I said hesitatingly, 'Noooo?' I lied. I've had two. One five years ago and one ten years ago. I was due.

'You're getting that age,' she said. 'You should speak to your doctor. And while you are at it get your prostate tested. It's pretty simple.' I wondered how she knew.

She grinned, 'I've had mine tested.'

"You don't have a prostate."

'I know." Her smile widened.

Yikes.

Chapter 3

Cookie was with me to drive me home after the procedure. I said "you should go hang out in town, go to the library, get a coffee, whatever. Looks like I'll be at least three hours." She left.

I sauntered down the hall feigning carefree and casual. Looking like a ski bum I dragged my heavy snow boots along the floor. Today it's all about attitude. I felt like I was back in grade school making my way to the Principal's office to get my ass reamed rather than in the hospital about to get my ass reamed.

People had already occupied some of the chairs, cheap plastic ones like the kind you'd find in a tacky cafeteria. There were a lot of old guys who looked identical and one woman, late thirties, early forties I guessed. Wait a minute, I'm of the same age as these ancient looking fuckers. Crikey, do I look that old? The woman glanced up at me and smiled as I passed. I made a face and smiled back. I couldn't help notice there was a single space between each person. Like no one wanted to touch another person. Dare I sit beside another person? Dare I sit beside the woman. I followed the unspoken rule, I sat at the end and left a space. I leaned forward and looked down the uneven isle at the other tortured souls. Most just stared at the blank wall across the way. The woman played on her cell phone.

The door to the Day Surgery area swings open and closed by one of those automatic push buttons. It operates in complete silence and moves as if it has a will of it's own. Like a call to the gallows a single name is spoken into the still air. The victim solemnly stands, shuffles forward and the doors silently close behind. Time passes. Without warning the automatic door returns to life. The person who previously entered has disappeared without a trace.

'Mr. Oldish.'

It was my turn to go through the pearly gates. I did so tentatively. I entered the chamber. The doors closed behind me. I watched them swing shut.

Straight ahead a solid wall. To the left another set of stocky looking doors, closed tight. To my right a small change room with a tiny wooden bench, and a flimsy white curtain, fastened with rings like a shower curtain, hung limply and drawn open. There was no sign of human life. As I peered into the change room a voice startled me. 'Notquite?'

"Um, yes?" I turned to see a young person, shorter than I, decked out in blue overalls, her long dark hair pulled back into a pony tail.

She was directive and direct. She handed me a bag and some cloth. 'Here are two gowns. The first one goes on open at the back, the second one goes over top, open at the front. Change room is there,' she pointed, 'I'll be back in five minutes.' She turned and zipped out of the room, her pony tail bobbing behind her.

I sat down on the little wooden bench and exhaled. I perceived a problem. Do I completely strip off my clothes and then put on the gowns or should I remove some clothes, put on a gown, and then remove the rest of my clothes and don the second gown? Fuck, I hate this. What if I'm totally naked when Pony Tail returns? Fuck. She only gave me one bag and I'm wearing enough clothes to fill three bags.

I stripped naked, bare feet on the freezing floor, holding the gowns up for inspection wondering if there were subtle differences in their design indicating which one to put on first. They appeared similar so I surmised it didn't matter which gown went on first. I don't do stress well.

I stuffed as much of my clothes into the plastic bag as I could. No way the heavy boots and winter coat were going to fit. What do I do? Leave them here. No one else left clothes behind. There were no hooks to hang a jacket on anyway. My feet were cold so I put my boots back on.

Sitting dejectedly, partially lost in thought, I saw three blue pieces of cloth lying on the floor almost hidden from view by the drawn curtain. I bent forward and grabbed them. Ah ha! Flimsy little booties for the feet, and some other thing. And look, more plastic baggies tucked below the bench. Fantastic. This is going great. My mood picked up considerably.

Pony Tail returned and looked me once over. 'Put your hair net on, bring your bags, follow me.'

A hair net. Of course. Not that I have much hair.

Chapter 4
The day before may be more interesting than the actual day of the procedure. But then again it may not be. Depends on your perspective.

The letter had listed directions that must be followed to the letter. Or else. Luckily I'm good at following directions.

The first thing to do was to take a trip to the drug store and purchase some foul tasting concoction that is supposed to 'aid' in eliminating wastes from the bowel. We must have a clean bowel musn't we? I was instructed to pick up a Kit of Bowel Aid that contained four packs of powder. The Pharmacist looked on the shelf and said in a high pitched voice, 'OH!... we don't have any left. We'll have to order some more.'

What the F. Was there an unexpected run on this stuff? A sudden surge in colonoscopies? How do you run out of this stuff?

"What do I do?" I wailed, "I have to have the stuff for tomorrow?"

'We have the same thing just different."

"Huh?"

The Pharmacist ran off rummaging through shelves loaded with salves, ointments, pills and sponges. A couple of other Pharmacists came over to help. They scrambled around, occasionally whispering to each other, 'over here, no, maybe over here.' I wasn't impressed. Finally the three of them came forward. 'Got it. It's three pills and only two packages of powder. Works just as well and you won't have to drink as much of the mixture. Don't worry, you'll be fine.'

I was skeptical but desperate. That's what happens when I procrastinate.

Cookie was with me in the Pharmacy, "Remember the letter said it would help to have juice or something to help wash the Bowel Aid down." Before we left the Pharmacy I purchased 4 massive bottles of blue flavored Gatoraid.

"This ought to help!" I was anticipating the worst and hoping for the best.

Cookie questioned my sanity, 'are you sure you need that much Gatoraid?'

"Absolutely, Gatoraid for the Bowel Aid. Blue is the best."

The next morning was prep day. I was ready and I told Cookie so. "The letter said not to eat solid foods the day before the procedure, but I'm hungry so I think I'll have some oatmeal for breakfast. I'd say oatmeal isn't really solid food."

Cookie narrowed her eyes and kept her comments to herself.

I decided it would be okay to have one tiny piece of toast. The kind with tons of seeds in it. Healthy toast. But no butter. Okay, a little butter. And black coffee. No cream. I wasn't supposed to have any dairy. I consider butter to be a non dairy product, don't you? It's kind of oily isn't it?

Still hungry, I went off to work. I came home before noon. The bowel flush was to begin in the afternoon. The directions on the box said take the three pills around 1pm, wait until you have a dump or wait for 6 hours, whatever comes first, and then start drinking the powder mixture like crazy.

I was pumped so I took the pills at noon. The pills were surprisingly small. Atomic size really. I expected something the size of agates. Life is full of surprises. With the pills being so small I was doubtful to their degree of effectiveness. What ever, I chased them down with a liter of blue gatoraid and cursed the pharmacist's and all their children as I did so.

I waited.

Six o'clock. Nothing. I was starting to feel a little panicky. "Something's wrong with me Cookie. I took the pills and waited six hours. Nothing's happened. Not even a gurgle or a fart. I expected gurgling at the least."

I was loosing it. "It's the Pharmacist's fault! Aaaaaa, what if I don't get a fully clean bowel?"

Cookie said calmly, 'just keep following directions and don't worry about it. You'll be fine.'

'That's what the pharmacist said', directed I, with hands on hips, to Mrs. No Worries.

I prepared the first batch of Bowel Aid. 'Mix the powder in cold water until it dissolves. Then drink the foul concoction as fast as you can. Stay near a toilet.' That's pretty clear.

So I drank it. And I drank three more liters of blue gatoraid.

That was a mistake.

I shit and shit, and then shit some more. Eventually it was like pissing out your asshole. That stuff really works.

I shit every colour of the rainbow, including several shades of blue.

Yikes.

Oh yeah. The oatmeal was probably a mistake. The toast with the seeds definitely was. As I said, luckily I'm good at following directions.

Chapter 5  
Pony tail beckoned me forward, directed me to a fancy cot with wheels, bid me lie down and started grilling me with the same questions as the mean lady at reception. I was completely unprepared for this type of investigation. Eventually she stuck me with a syringe full of clear liquid. Truth serum.

"I'm not lying," I said. "My name really is Notquite and my dog tag is 092254. I'm here for a colonoscopy and if I live through it I promise I'll be good."

'Yes, yes, you'll be fine,' Ponytail said.

Where have I heard that before?

Then she wheeled me over to a huddle of other old guys who all looked the same. Who are these guys? They can't be the same dudes as the transfixed old farts in the hall. How could they be ahead of me? The forty something woman was there too. I was hoping I'd be placed next to her instead of beside some old fucker, but they whisked her away and put me in her spot.

Crammed into rows, a half dozen or more of us lay prone on our cots staring at a gaudy blue/green wall.

Off to my far left a tiny flat screen TV blared.

Choices were limited. Stare at the TV. Stare at the wall.

I choose the wall. More entertaining.

But like the Singing Sirens who tried to beckon Jason and the Argonauts to certain death I too was drawn in by it's enchanting spell.

Lord have mercy. A game show. You're kidding me? People actually watch this?

However, something seemed familiar. By golly, 'The Price Is Right'. I was aghast. It was still on after how many decades? Why?

The host was initially puzzling. He to was familiar.  'Ah ha, so that's what happened to Drew Cary,' I gloated, 'boy he fell a long way.' To be knocked off my high horse, he probably makes more in a day than I do in a year. Who's the real chump?

Some of the guys were getting right into it and I could see one or two quietly pumping their fists. The Sirens were winning.

Then it dawned on me, holy mackerel, 'One Flew Over The Coo Coo's Nest'. Ponytail was Nurse Ratshit. I was one of the inmates, probably Danny DeVito. Definitely not Jack Nicholson.

I couldn't take it any longer. I cranked my neck around to see what took place behind our backs. Ponytail was in a corner sticking some other guy with the truth serum. One of the other nurses, a curly blonde who looked bored, held a clip board and was interrogating another hapless soul. He had the truth serum draining into his hand too.

Yikes.

One by one we were wheeled away. Picked off like sitting ducks.

Chapter 6
The operating room was rather nondescript. Same garish blue/green walls. A bunch of beeping machines with lights flashing. I don't remember if there were any windows. I think not. But plenty of florescent lights made the space quite stark and glaringly bright. I'm sure there were no shadows in this room.

A a team of  nurses asked me all the same questions as previous. Doesn't anyone write this stuff down?

One of them asked about medications. Did you take any today?

"I take none."

What about vitamins and supplements?

"Vitamin D and Magnesium."

Why do you take Magnesium?

Everybody stopped what they were doing and looked at me.

"What? How the hell should I know?"

I couldn't think why at the moment. I was feeling a little pressured.

A tall nurse who was in desperate need of a shave answered for me with a basso hoity-toity voice, 'Cause your wife told you too.'

Everybody laughed.

"Well," said I, "you're not far off the mark."

Some guy in the corner, who turned out to be the surgeon, said, 'almost all the men that come here tell us their wives make them take their vitamins. Join the club.'

They all laughed again.

The Surgeon explained the process, what he was going to do and what he was going to look for, and all the terrible things that could go wrong during the procedure. Then I had to sign a release form absolving him of all fault if he screwed things up. Logical.

"Roll on your side."  I did.

"Did you drink ALL of your medication?"  I did.

Need's a Shave turned out to be the anesthesiologist. 'You're going to fall asleep. Then you will wake up.'

I hope so.

Last thing I heard him say, 'don't worry, you'll be fine.' I know. That's what every one keeps telling me.

I did, I was. I woke up in the exact same place, same fetal position a couple of seconds later. I thought perhaps the anesthesia didn't work. Then I heard, 'he's awake.' It was over.

The Surgeon peered down at me. "You're good. All went well. Good clean bowel. No problems. Your colon is in excellent condition. See you in five years." I blinked.

I can hardly wait.

Chapter 7

Somebody wheeled me away and stationed me between the forty something woman and some old guy. I didn't like the old guy. He reminded me of me. Old. So I turned to the young woman. She was eating a muffin and downing a juice. "How'd it go?"

"Fine, fine." She choked. Muffin bits flew out of her mouth. "All is good. You?"

"Yeah, me too. I'll live for a while yet. You a farmer?" I ask people if they are farmers. One can hope. It's also a good ice breaker.

She waved her juice box in the air and pursed her lip. "Noooo? But I garden, quite a bit. I'm a nurse."

Well, Blondie Clipboard and Pony Tail were within ear shot. Damned if they didn't come running over and the three of them had a big chin wag. It was like a high school reunion or something. Everybody squealing and jumping. I ate a blueberry muffin that tasted nothing like blueberries. They had no Perrier.

One by one we dressed to go home in the allotted restroom. Blondie Clipboard walked Forty Something and I out to the main foyer where we were to wait for our rides. This time it was like walking the yellow brick road in 'Wizard of Oz', the three of us arm in arm, Blondie in the middle. Perhaps we should have skipped.

In front of the rotating entry doors sat an old oaken bench. We sat down on it. The bench was stained dark dark, well worn, and solid as granite. Must of been there for a hundred years. To heavy to move.

"Are you sure you are not a farmer? You seem like the type. Maybe your family farms? At least you're from Perth, right?"

"No, I live near Chaffey's Locks. Grew up there. Did my nurse training in the big city, came back. Now my husband and I run a B&B. There's a lot of grounds work to do. And I still nurse. Down in Kingston. Can't live in the city. Still a country girl at heart. You?"

"Born and raised in Toronto. Live in Maberly now. On a farm. It's fun. It's a learning process. What are you going to eat to break your fast?"

"Oh, I dunno. Soup, probably. Something hearty but light." She looked toward the doors. "My husband's here. Gotta go. I'm Catherine by the way, nice to meet you.... ?"

"Nice name Catherine. I'm Notquite."

Her face lit up. "Nice name too, Notquite. Bye" We shook hands.

"See you here in five years, eh?" I yelled to no one. She was gone, already twirled through the revolving doors and out into the still overcast day. She passed Cookie who was on her way in. My ride was here too. I smiled.

Grackle

"The Grackle died," she announced as she pushed open the front door of the old farm house. Cold air streamed in. She spoke loudly, just shy of a shout, "I found his little body lying on the snow, next to the food and water that was put out for the ducks."

"I guess the cold finally got to him," she continued as she heeled off her snow boots then flicked them with her toes onto the shoe tray. "Anyway, the birds are all tucked in for the night."

A Grackle had been loitering around the homestead since mid summer. Most of its tail feathers were missing, others were damaged. It could fly, awkwardly, from ground to low hanging tree branch or fence post. Mostly it sauntered about on spindly legs over grass and ground.

The Grackle was a he, probably young, somewhat short and plump, although that could have been an illusion due to his sparse tail feathers. His legs seemed short for a grackle. Grackles tend to be long and lean.

She took off her coat, hung it up, sat herself down at the kitchen table. Her man sat across the way, close to the wood stove.

"You still cold?"

"Yeah. I think it'll take awhile to thaw out. Work was mighty cold today. I'm sure glad we have a warm house. I always feel bad for the birds when it gets cold like this."

"I'm sorry he's gone. Poor Grackle, I liked him."

They both did. The Grackle had become a fixture around the farm yard, like the ducks or chickens. He could be spotted mingling with the diverse soiree of domesticated fowl, a tiny speck among boulders, neck cocked and craned, looking up at them, eavesdropping on their birdy conversations.

When ever they tended the birds the people would keep an eye out for the Grackle. Invariably he would be there, somewhere; be it copping some seed in the hen's coop, standing lonely in the grass, perched atop a stack of composting hay, or sitting on a nearby fence watching the goings on of chicken, duck, dog, or person. Sometimes he could be heard rustling through fallen leaves underneath the bare trees on the far side of the house.

He never cackled a complaint or trilled an alarm like other birds. If an intruder or threat approached he simply hopped away, silently, quickly, but not to quick as to appear rushed or fearful.

His life, like most of us, alternated between the pedestrian and the portentous. The farm cat would hesitate as he meandered by, stare in feline contemplation at the little black bird, swish his tail, and then proceed on. Though that may say more about the cat than the Grackle. A dozen times the tiny fellow became imprisoned in one of the live traps left out to capture ravenous hordes of chipmunks. Grackle was freed, but not without a fleeting notion of a supposedly more merciful  and conclusive fate.

Grackles are social, loud, gregarious. Generally they are not well thought of. Flocks large enough to eclipse the sun can descend on grain fields and decimate an entire crop. This one bucked the stereotype and kept to himself. By choice, by need, or, perhaps cruelly ostracized, who could say? For what ever reason he was a loner. He lived, survived, toughed it out on his own in a friendless dire landscape. What was there not to like about the little guy? He was a gamer. He was low maintenance  and his presence added something different, something out of the ordinary to the ongoing routine of animal care.

As the days and months passed an element of drama built.
"Have you seen him today?"
"How did he look?"
"Who was he with? The ducks or the chickens?"
"Do you think he'll be okay?"

Then as winter stormed in and nightly temperatures dropped concerns changed from "have you seen him today?" to one of survival.  The belief was that if he could make it through the darkest autumn months and beyond the coming solstice then with luck he may survive to see the light and warmth of spring.

The doors to the garage were left open. Perhaps he'd find a roost, or a snug corner to tuck himself into away from the chill of overnight winds. More likely he took shelter in thick boughs of a nearby evergreen.

But Grackles lack the down of a duck or the cold weather plumage of a chicken and though he fluffed out his feathers as best he could he looked as if the cold and the snow were taking their toll.



By the end of summer when days grow shorter and the heat finally wanes birds of all manner begin their migration south. Some come and go one or two at a time, or, for safety and support, they gather in large flocks and take to the wing in large numbers. A variety of species stop by the old farm on their way through. They mingle with the ducks and chickens. Perhaps they feel safe hopping around among the long legs of the bigger birds. More likely it is the grain that attracts them.  They eat their fill of spilled seed or they sneak into coops and shelters and steal, which probably isn't the best way to put it, what ever they can, storing much needed energy on easy pickings before they hightail it off into the blue sky towards the distant horizon. The chickens and ducks pay them little heed.

As every season is different so are the years that seem to fly by. This year an over abundance of Grackles, Blue Jays and Red Wing Blackbirds stayed around the farm for weeks. While the Grackles and Red Wings feasted on free grain, the Blue Jays denuded ripening pear trees and stripped vines that were loaded heavily with plump purple grapes. Meanwhile countless little brown jobs like Juncos and White Crown Sparrows picked their way through the remains of the garden.

Blue Jays screeched and cawed and caused a ruckus more annoying than the predawn crowing of an early rising rooster. Red Wings soared in from the sidelines looking like jets landing on aircraft carriers. Grackles by the score perched in trees directly overhead feed stations. They plopped down to the feast below like falling apples. There was a mishmash of competition and cooperation. Who could fault them. The pickings were easy and ripe.

As the days shortened the wild birds became fewer in number until there remained only one, a Grackle, stunted, with a spindly tail and a beautiful iridescent blue head who walked more than he flew. Standing alone on the barren earth he watched with yellowy eye and tilted head the others of his kind leave in large groups. And he bid them farewell.

Then he watched the leaves on all the trees turn from green to a hundred shades of red, orange and yellow. He watched the leaves wither and fall. He felt the winds change. They came rushing in from the north bringing at first a cold, driving rain, then snow, wet and sticky. He watched frost cover pumpkin and kale and he watched muddy puddles freeze over. His world was the farm yard. His friends the chickens and ducks. His admirers, the people.

He died on a cold November's day, a year when winter came early and the snows covered the ground.