Deb had the strength of 10 women.
To put up with the likes of me, that was a prerequisite. She'd given birth to two daughters -- no C-sections -- had two root canals, and in the later years subjected her body to all kinds of biopsies, blood pricks, MRI scans, and a hellish Y90 radiation treatment that left her with less energy than a tranquilized nonagenarian. And through it all, she never complained. Ok, I know that's cliche and always an overstatement.
She whined a little, but had every right to.
The point is, she was always unfazed about any and all medical intrusions. I, on the hand, have come through life without ever spending a night in the hospital. Except for the birth of our daughters. Where I had to sleep on a creaky reclining chair. And with no epidural.
Deb had her first colonoscopy before me. She was a bit older than me, 7 weeks and I never let her forget it. Hers was such a non-event I can't even remember if I drove her to the ass inspector or not. She might have even taken an Uber home. I just don't recall.
My colonoscopy had all the drama of the first Jarvik 7 heart transplant.
For one thing, by the time I had reached 50 years old, I had never been under general anesthesia. I had been black out drunk two times in college and hated that notion of other people telling me what I had done. So the thought of voluntarily going under was as appealing as a bowl of steamed broccoli topped with canned peas and carrots.
Moreover, the preparation and the notion of swallowing some human Roto-Rooter was equally repulsive. No need to take a deep dive into this, particularly for you readers who have been through the procedure and ventured into Innerspace. FUN FACT: My first solo-written screenplay was a comedic remake of the movie Fantastic Voyage. There were some funny moments but by and large it was a POS.
Let's fast forward to the end of the colonoscopy, where I was wheeled into the recovery room. No one tells you about this part and they should because it's a nirvana-like experience waking up from the Propofol and realizing you're still alive.
As I awoke, Deb was hovered right over me. She smiled, grabbed my hand and said...
"You made it. It's all done."
"They took my molars out?," still foggy from the Michael Jackson's preferred recreational drug.
"All gone. And while you were out they stuck a camera up your butt."
My high-as-a-kite antics didn't end there. When the nurse came in to check on me and said that it wasn't all bad, I asked for a lollipop. The nurse laughed and Deb rolled her eyes.
"She's so pretty. Isn't she pretty?" I blurted.
"Let's get you dressed so we can go home," replied Deb.
"I want to stay here with the pretty nurse."
At this point I could hear the others nurses on the other side of the curtain giggling.
"Let's get your pants on."
"What if you do one leg and the pretty nurse does the other?"
"Yeah, No."
As we left the Ass Inspection Clinic, Deb apologized to the staff, who all smiled and responded...
"Good luck with that one."
"You have no idea," said Deb with one more knowing roll of the eyes.
Turns out I had the good luck of living with a saint for 30 years.
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