Posterior Pondering
By Richard Hannibal, Retired Police Sergeant
I left the changing room clutching the back of my hospital gown. I wanted to keep my bare butt from exposure to the world. I was in no mood to subject my skinny behind to needless ridicule. I'm not too self-conscious except when people joke, "Hey, you ain't got no butt." I usually joke back, "Well, you don't need a sledge hammer to pound a tack." Some get it, some don't.
I walked across the lit room clad only in black socks and the thin gown that ended eight inches above my knees. A nurse guided me to a curtain-enclosed area containing a hospital bed with side rails. I had just come off a two-day pre-colonoscopy preparation that left my colon sparkling clean. So clean in fact, that I wondered if the doctor might ask me to be his valentine.
Once I got in the bed, a nurse placed a heated blanket over me and joked, "This is part of our spa services." It felt good. Another nurse entered with a large syringe and catheter. She had a bubbly personality and was kind of cute. Under different circumstances, I may have flirted with her. Now I withdrew in my embarrassment and wished she would go away.
The nurse asked me my name and birth date. I don't usually give folks my age. It's not because of vanity, but because I resist someone putting put in the box of race, gender, religion, politics, or age. I answered, "Richard . . ." and paused. My normal reply when someone asks me my age is "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?" Again, some get it and some don't.
I realized the nurse was testing me. She wanted to make sure I was the Richard who should be lying in that bed and not some deranged pervert looking for a sexual experience.
The nurse told me that the procedure would begin soon and asked if I wanted a magazine to read while I waited. I declined. Instead, I watched them wheel patients in and out of the procedure room. They went in lying on their backs, looking around, and wheeled out on their sides, eyes closed and drooling. Oh boy, I couldn't wait.
Finally, two smiling nurses grabbed each side of my bed and off I rolled into the unknown. The door to the procedure room opened into twilight darkness. A faint glow illuminated the area where my doctor stood. He gripped a water cup with his teeth while using one hand to hold my chart and the other to turn the pages. A technician appeared to be cleaning or adjusting a probe attached to a long tube. It had the appearance of either a torture device or a marital aid. Oh the humanity! My bed came to a stop in front of a television screen that cheerfully blinked the name of the software used in the procedure.
The doctor removed the cup from its toothy grip and put it on a table. He turned and said, "Good morning Richard, do you have any questions?"
"Yeah, how do I get out of here?" Forced chuckles came from those who had heard those words hundred times.
A beautiful, blonde girl, looked to be around 14-years-old, came up and put her hand on my shoulder. She had a radiant smile and introduced herself as my anesthesiologist. She said she was going to give me the drug Propofol. She added, "That is the same drug they gave Michael Jackson to help him sleep." That was little comfort. Now I knew why they wanted the "Do not resuscitate" instructions included with my file. Once again the I had the thought, "How do I get out of here," but didn't verbalize it. No sense in irritating the powers-that-be at that critical moment.
The anesthesiologist asked me to roll over on my left side with my right arm extended down my right thigh. She told me she was going to inject the drug into my I.V. I watched her push down the syringe plunger and my brain began to tingle and go numb. The sensation began at the front and progressed to both sides. I closed my eyes and said, "Man this sure comes on fast." The last things I remember were those words and the gentle face looking down at me. After that, I entered the void of unconsciousness, leaving only my primal life support system functioning.
In what seemed like the next moment, I began to feel sensation return to the sensory deprivation chamber of my skull. A faint voice reached me from the far end of a tunnel, whispering, "Richard, Richard." For the moment I remained in a space of warmth, comfort, and safety — a space where there was no yesterday and no tomorrow. There was just the eternal Now. I didn't want to leave. In spite of my resistance, the fog cleared and I became aware of light and more sounds. The soft voice, still in the distance repeated, "Richard, Richard."
In the woozy twilight between darkness and light I wondered, ‘is this what dying is like'? Could it be, at my time of departure, the Great Mystery, or a loved one might whisper my name, inviting me to the other side? I continued to drift, holding on and letting go at the same time. Finally, "holding on" yielded to "letting go" and I emerged from the abyss. I heard the voice exit the tunnel, "Richard, it's all over." I opened my eyes and saw the angelic nurse standing next to my bed in the recovery room.
It took a couple minutes to orientate myself while my parched lips and mouth rejoiced with a bottle of ice-cold cranberry juice. I then made the trek back to the changing room and put on my street clothes. When I left, a nurse handed me a note from my doctor saying I checked out fine and recommended I return in five years.
I stepped out into the sunshine; my ride was waiting for me. The world had continued its trip around the sun. People were still moving about with their loves, hates, fears, and triumphs. Everything remained the same, but I was different somehow. The procedure assured me I had a healthy colon, which of course relieved me. However, it was more than that. It was what I experienced coming out of the shadow of anesthesia. Sometimes we receive internal insights where words are not yet to invented to describe them. These are insights that we cannot convey to another person. It is these thoughts that will remain with me for a long time and perhaps give me some hints of life-after-life confirmation. |
