American Colonoscopy

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Privatized Healthcare

Back in 2019, when I was just a forty-eight-year-old kid whose health care consisted of Obamacare and a bushel of kale, my doctor delivered the grim news:

“You need a colonoscopy.”

“I do?” I said. “Right now?”

“We don’t do that here,” she said. “Some providers begin covering them at forty-eight, so call your insurance.”

Since my doctor speaks with a British accent, I did exactly as she said. And as Opus #1 looped on my phone’s speaker, I realized that I didn’t even know what a colonoscopy was. I mean, I knew that something went somewhere. Otherwise, this vacuum got colored in by that bystander from History of the World, Part I:

“THEY SHOVE A LIVING SNAKE UP YOUR ASS!”

And then I pictured a twenty-foot snake, wide as a cop’s flashlight, slithering all the way up to my lunch, its camera filming all along the way for later upload to YouTube. So once my call truly DID become important to my insurance company, and the woman on the other end informed me that colonoscopies aren’t covered until fifty, she may have heard me sigh, “Oh thank God!”

Unfortunately, Time is a cruel and relentless bitch. It just keeps going and going until you’re fifty or dead, whichever comes first. And once the 5 rolled down on my odometer, and my doctor again ordered me in her stern British accent, I set up my appointment. Then, during a telemedicine visit, I was glad to learn I’d be knocked out — instead of bent over a gurney and biting a leather strap. But this also frightened me. What if I were dealt a below-average anesthesiologist who was having a bad day? Furthermore, my medical intervention tops out at broken arms and stitches. No one has ever had to Cut A Hole In Me. Ironically, imagining how much scarier THAT prospect would be made me feel better by comparison. They’re just going to inspect, I thought — with extreme prejudice.

Then I got my prescription for The Stuff a.k.a. The Stuff You Drink the Day Before. Basically, it’s Liquid-Plumr for your digestive tract. On charts displaying what you could and couldn’t eat, it was nice, for once, to see Fiber — that nutritional superhero forever flying over our dietary landscape, its sanctimonious cape flapping in the breeze of its own flatulent power— stuck in the role of dietary Bad Guy. Without getting all into it, you then drink The Stuff again morning-of, just to ensure that…you know…all of the hostages have been evacuated. After doing my day-of course, however, I was starving. And confused from lack of caffeine. So I had an Italian ice, which I had seen on the Good Chart. That sugary, frozen lemon tasted as good as when I was eight. And on the ride over to the medical center, I felt like I could do this. Until an orderly handed me a hospital gown.

“Take off all your clothes, except for your socks,” she said.

Something about that last part just felt WRONG. Then, before drawing the curtain, she added, “Leave your gown open in the back.”

An I-V portal was attached to a vein in my arm and then, during final paperwork, I learned that that Italian ice was a big no-no. The orderly ran off to tattle on me.

“You can’t eat ANYTHING before going under,” the anesthesiologist said. “When did you eat this?”

I rounded myself down half an hour and he seemed to think that enough time would pass before showtime.

“Why does it matter?” I asked. “It’s just sugar and water and Yellow #6.”

He shook his head. “Anything in your stomach can go into your lungs and choke you to death.”

Since Death, really, is the Cadillac of side effects, I flashed on clarifying my timeline — but then I’d need to schedule a new appointment, would have to redo The Stuff, and before I could dither any further they were wheeling me into The Room Where It Happens. After hooking me up to those tubes that deliver oxygen into your nostrils, I was instructed to lie on my side. And once I felt the chill of the air on the bare skin of my ass, I was consumed by a white-hot flash of fear.

Then, in the next moment, I remembered that Life can be cut short at any instant. And were I to get cancelled right now — and for real — I found upside in the painlessness of it. I’d further be spared having to live through the full bloom of Fascism, or the ravages of Climate Catastrophe, or the complete and total takeover of our entertainment landscape by superhero movies and franchise reboots. And by the time the anesthesiologist hooked a syringe up to that portal, I was actually feeling pretty Zen.

Until I thought of something in my bedroom closet — something I wished my family wouldn’t have to find — but then he pushed down the plunger and said, “OK, we’ll see you in a bit.”

And then a warm, cotton-candy cloud rose up in me and it felt AMAZING.

For three seconds.

And then I was out.

OUT.

And then, in what felt like the next instant, I woke up.

“Welcome back,” the anesthesiologist said.

I wiggled my lower half and wasn’t feeling any…well…worse for the wear, so to speak. In fact, I felt perfectly refreshed.

“No polyps,” the doctor said. “You’re good. We’ll see you in ten years.”

A wave of relief washed over me. Because there is nothing underrated about being both Alive and Well. And as they wheeled me back, I thought that if they ever do have to Cut A Hole In Me, I’d feel less scared. And even though our health care system is a shameful joke for a big-boy country like ours, I felt grateful that I had insurance at all that provided these smart, trained professionals to take care of me.

More than that, however, I was starving.

Back at home, I went straight for my fridge, feeling like a kid in a candy store. I pulled out some merguez sausage, grabbed the eggs, and then reflexively reached for a bag of rainbow chard before thinking better of it.

“Not today, ” I said to those leafy greens. “There’s no one to run out of town.”

And then my sausage and eggs on crusty bread tasted spectacular. After mopping up my plate, I thought that I should probably go clean my bedroom closet. But first, I needed a nap.

I’ll get to that later, I thought, collapsing on my couch. Later… And when my eyes closed — this time of my own damned volition — I just felt glad to be alive.