As I sat in a waiting room after having driven a friend to her colonoscopy appointment, I considered the whole subject of unpleasant medical exams—hers in particular and mine by extension. Happily, I could wait outside with a newspaper as she was wheeled away on a gurney.
Until she walked into the hospital and stood at the admissions desk, I wasn’t sure if she would even go through with it, but swilling back a gallon of grape flavoured laxative isn’t something you do on a whim; escape was futile.
Turning to me as we scuffled down the hallway, she hissed, “They asked for photo ID. Can you believe it? Who in their right mind would want to fraudulently attend someone else’s colonoscopy appointment? They’d have to be crazy!”
I giggled uncomfortably, feeling her pain. I’ve undergone various tests too. In fact, as you may reasonably expect, I have a tale to tell along this theme. (Insert disclaimer here).
To set the scene, you must know that before this procedure, I was single, and friends had invited me to a dine and dance. It had been a lovely evening. We’d eaten well, cavorted about the dance floor, and met some interesting people, one of whom was a strikingly handsome fellow with aristocratic bearing and impeccable style; a poor sense of humour perhaps—but I could’ve worked around that.
Fast forward a week. I entered the Manitoba hospital, where I lived at the time, and was handed disposable blue booties and the usual backless gown. Yay. Once attired in these offensive garments, the nurse led me along a cheerless passage and through swinging doors to where a steel slab awaited my presence. Double yay.
With his back to us, the physician busily clattered instruments onto a tray and instructed the nurse to have me lie down. Then whirling about with a grim smile, he began to introduce himself. His voice trailed into nothingness. We had met before—he was the man from the party—and I was having a BARIUM ENEMA.
My face must have registered the horror I felt. Still, apart from that first jolt of recognition, the doctor quickly smoothed his features into masklike neutrality.
“Roll over, please,” he stated calmly, “and extend your posterior. This may hurt a little. Try to relax.”
“RELAX?” a voice screamed in my head. Was he for real? The whole episode had quickly taken on a nightmarish quality, not unlike an old Alfred Hitchcock movie.
What kind of nut could feel at ease when a handsome, eligible man sees you, not only attired in paper slippers and sackcloth but is required by his profession to run a tube up your butt
and introduce a foreign substance into your cramping bowels before snapping photographic evidence of the event for later consideration? ARGH!
Of course, people have formed lasting relationships amid some rather strange circumstances, but let’s be honest. Once an enema has been administered, it’s pretty much over.
We parted ways without further eye contact or comment and never spoke again. Medical procedures are essential, but as precursors to lasting relationships—not so much.
To contact Helen or learn more about her books, including two new sweet romances, go to helentoews.com