By Null
Per the normal procedure, I had taken off all of my clothes, except for my polka-dotted socks, and put on the hospital gown, open in the back. I then slipped on my “COIVD masks,” which consisted of a surgical mask underneath a black-and-white cloth mask. After putting the loops over my ears and readjusting my eyeglasses, I laid down on the hospital bed, which contained a strategically placed “incontinence pad.” It was my big day, as I would soon be on my fiftieth trip around the sun. Thus, I had to get my first colonoscopy—the time-honored tradition wherein a person fasts for at least 24 hours before drinking a gallon of liquid magic that turns one’s anus into an angry water faucet, thereby completely emptying the colon so that the doctor can insert a camera in one’s large intestine to check things out. While I’ve never been called a tight-ass, and the pad was there for possible leakage, it thankfully was not needed.
On this special day, I was in the surgery center, because even though one isn’t under the knife during a colonoscopy, an anesthesiologist is needed as one is put under for about 30 minutes, not all the way, but more like in the “date rape drug” kind of way—just below the surface.
At any rate, I digress.
Katie, the nurse attending me, walked into the curtained off section where I was waiting. We engaged in a bit of small talk, along with some questions and answers regarding the procedure. At one point, I asked her about her accent. “Is that a Southern accent?”
Katie laughed and replied, “Yeah, I don’t know why. It just won’t go away. It’s Arkansas. I moved to Colorado 3 years ago.” She seemed a little embarrassed.
“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with it. I think it’s great.” Why does someone expect to lose their accent in 3 years, and why would they want to?
“There’s a lot of rain down there, and heat,” she said.
“And armadillos,” I said in my best Southern accent, pronouncing it “armadillas.”
We continued to chatter. I was already smitten with Katie. She was funny, wasn’t taken off guard by my off topic questions and comments, and, most importantly, she was very relaxed and chilled out. Considering that everyone in the hospital was wearing masks, I could only see her eyes, and they were pretty, kind, and sympathetic. I have no idea how old she was. As I get older, I find it almost impossible to guess the age of most people. I can recognize children and teenagers as such, as well as people in their 90s, but everyone between those age groups is a crap shoot. As a 49-year-old man, I continuously view people much younger than me as my peers. It’s weird. They’re clearly not. Regardless, I’m gonna say Katie was in her late 30s, but I wanted to call her “mom.” I guess context is important.
“The anesthesiologist will be in to talk to you in a few minutes. We are going to put you under for about 30 minutes. They use Propofol,” Katie said, as she wheeled her chair over to hold my hand as she searched for a good vein for the IV. She continued, “It’s really great. It puts you to sleep in a matter of seconds and then you wake up really quick right afterwards.” She had a sparkle in her eye that made me question, just for a second, if she had a Propofol problem. I immediately discarded the thought from my mind; however, I quickly recalled how this sleeping drug killed Michael Jackson. I didn’t mention it, because, ya know, mentioning Michael Jackson is akin to opening a can of worms. Besides, I didn’t have time, as the anesthesiologist walked in and said, “Hummm, Alice in Chains. They didn’t even have masks back then.”
I had forgotten that I was wearing my Alice in Chains, Rainier Fog face mask that I had picked at the beginning of the pandemic. From a distance, it looks like a black and white air filter. The anesthesiologist gave me the rundown of the procedures, asked me about my medications, and mentioned he’d be using Propofol. Fuck it. “Isn’t that the drug that killed Michael Jackson?” I asked with a chuckle.
He replied, “And that is why it should be administered in a hospital under the watchful eye of an anesthesiologist and not at home.” He nodded, smiled, and finished writing down a few notes.
Having secured my IV, Katie squeezed my hand, looked at me from her chair, and in a compassionate voice, which betrayed any sense of irony, said, “Michael Jackson really needed to get some sleep.”
I refrained from laughing out loud due to her empathetic tone. I had to wonder if the consensus in Arkansas was that all of Michael Jackson’s problems boiled down to not getting enough sleep, or if this was just Katie’s summation. I looked at the anesthesiologist to see if this was also his take on the matter, but he had finished his paper work and left the room.
After the doctor entered the room and went over the procedure with me, it was time to get the job done. I was wheeled into the operating room. I was instructed to lie on my side. The lights were killed as to better view the monitor that would project the feature film that would star my colon. The anesthesiologist put his hand on my shoulder and informed me that the he would administer the Propofol in a matter of moments. Suddenly I heard “Man in the Box,” the big hit from Alice in Chains’ first album crank out of speakers that seemed to be situated throughout the room. Is the doctor okay with this? He never mentioned my mask? Was this the anesthesiologist’s idea? It couldn’t be a coincidence.
I heard a voice say, “You’ll start to feel sleepy in a few seconds.” My fading thoughts were as follows: “These guys must be pretty cool. They’d be cooler if they played something from the new records. It’s no big deal. It’s just a colon exam. Put on some rocking tunes. Alice in Chains. Michael Jackson…needed sleep.”
I began to fade back into consciousness, aware that some time had passed. I was sleepy, but awake. The room was still dark. Am I supposed to be awake? Should I verbalize this thought? I noticed two things simultaneously. The first was that a well lubricated, slightly vibrating object was in my butt. It didn’t feel unpleasant. The second thing was that now a different song was playing from Alice in Chains’ third album. Still not the new stuff. It was a good song though. I can’t remember which one exactly. I only knew what album it was from. I felt really good vibrations. I mustered up the energy to speak, “I’m awake.”
“I know.”
I faded away again.
The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the original room I was in prior to the procedure. Katie was there. She said, “See, you wake right up afterwards.” It took me a few moments to collect my thoughts and realize she was talking about Propofol again. Michael Jackson definitely got some good sleep on that shit. It does the job. I felt like I had been sleeping for hours; I was well rested. After putting my clothes back on, the doctor came in to go over the results of the colonoscopy. When he finished he was about to walk away, when I stopped him.
I said, “Was it you that picked out the music.” He lost his air of authority and gave me a slightly embarrassed look. He said, “Yeah, did you like it? I try to play music for patients some times and I’m not sure if it….”
I interrupted him. “It was great. I appreciate it. Thanks.”
A big smile appeared on his face and he looked relived, “You’re welcome.”
I was going to mention the new albums, but I decided to just go home knowing that, to some degree, he must have had a little music junkie in him too.
