One Night Right After Thanksgiving

I wake up at 2:00 O'clock with what seems like a major case of the Green Apple Quickstep. The stomach cramps are bad and I'm practically doubled over on the way to the bathroom. I get there, plop down on the porcelain and...nothing. This particular bathroom, commonly known as the auxiliary library, lacks for naught to read so I sit there, half asleep, thumbing through a year old copy of National Geographic. Still no action and after a while the cramps let up so I go back to bed.

Next night same thing only worse. And my belly is hurting during the day. I'm beginning to get worried.

I worry for two weeks and finally call my doctor for an appointment. The receptionist says I can come in at 3:00 PM. It's 2:45 when I call so I assume she means 3:00 PM, January 29, 2004, the usual wait between call and appointment. She says no, 3:00 PM today. I slam the phone down and race across town to the doctor's office. I get there, sign in and.........wait.

Time slows, then begins to stand still. Other people sign in. Their names are called. They go to the back. They come out again. I don't move. I start to feel like I'm at the event horizon of a black hole where everything stops and light can't escape. I can see them but they can't see me. Finally a nurse comes out with my folder. “Mr. Whinndon, Mr. West Whinndon,” she says. “It's Whiddon,” I say, “no nns in the middle. And it's Wes not West, short for Wesley.” She looks at me with a I KNEW THAT STUPID, look and says, “Come this way.”

We go into the exam room, I sit on the table, and we go through the question and answer period. She takes my blood pressure, tries to poke out my eardrum with a digital thermometer, writes it all down, hands me the despicable rag with twist ties in the back, and leaves. I put on the rag and.......wait.

An eternity later, I hear someone scrabbling at the chart holder on the outside of the door. The door bursts open. Huzzah, it's the doctor. (Yeah, I know Huzzah is a stupid word, but I was happy--for a second anyway) No, it's not, it's just the nurse with more questions. I give answers and she's off again. Within minutes there's more door scrabbling and the doctor actually makes an appearance.

“Hello, Mr. Whinndon, how are you?” she asks. Out of respect for her title, I forgo the name correction tirade and tell her about my stomach problems which, miracle of miracles, seem to have disappeared. She looks in my throat, feels my neck, looks in my ears, checks my lungs, everything except my belly. “Lay down on the table,” she says, “so I can check your stomach.” I slide back and lay down while simultaneously trying to keep the despicable rag from slipping away and exposing everything I own (which nowadays isn't much.) She pushes really hard on my abdomen in a half dozen spots, then thumps my belly on the right side. “Hard to tell exactly what's wrong,” she says, “You need to see a specialist.”

Two weeks later I'm ensconced in another despicable rag, describing the same thing to another doctor. He checks me again--throat, neck, ears, lungs. “Lie back and let me check your stomach,” he says. I do so with less trepidation this time because the doctor is a man. He pokes and prods and thumps. Then he says, “Turn on your side, I want to check your rectum.” CHECK MY RECTUM! Why is he doing this? I want to yell WHOA STOP WAIT A MINUTE THIS ISN'T RIGHT CEASE AND DESIST MY BELLY HURTS NOT MY BUTT. But instead I meekly roll over and this guy, who I've known for less than five minutes, pokes his finger right up in there and then he TWISTS it around. It hurts like hell. Impalement on a concrete pillar would have been more pleasant. I can't help myself and I start grunting like a pig in heat. He finishes rooting around in there and says, “OK that looks good.” My relief that the concrete pillar has been removed is immense. I'm also amazed that he has eyeballs in his fingertips.

“You can sit up,” he says. I do so--gingerly. “I think since your symptoms have mostly gone away, that you had a temporary blockage.” I'm still in a semi-stunned state from the finger wave and ask, “Blocked with what?” He says, “It could be anything, undigested food probably, and I think we don't need to do anything.” I begin to feel a modicum of relief. “BUT at your age, I think you need a COLONOSCOPY.” I have a sudden epiphany and my mind races ahead to that event. The mental picture of a sewer cleaning machine I rented years ago pops into my head. I see myself strapped to a gurney with my butt in the air. I'm looking behind me as a guy in a white uniform revs up the machine. It rotates faster and faster and he's getting closer and closer. “Mr. Whinndon! Mr. Whinndon,”the doctor says. “Oh, sorry, I say, you just reminded me of something I need to take care of.” Like getting my name changed, I say under my breath. “See the nurse out front and she will set up your test,” he says.

“Take off all your clothes except your socks and put this on.” It's a week later and a nurse is handing me another despicable rag. I strip out of my clothes, put the thing on, and slip some funny socks with rubber bottoms over the ones I'm wearing. This time I've got a recliner to sit/lay in and I make myself comfortable. The curtains are drawn around my little area and thirty seconds after I get comfortable, another nurse whips through them. “Mr. West Wind, says Nurse Ratchet. I feel like screaming MY NAME IS NOT WEST WIND, OR IS IT WEST WHINNDON, OR IS IT ANY OTHER OF THE @#$%^&*&^%%$ CONVOLUTIONS YOU PEOPLE MAKE IT INTO. But I don't. I simply say, “My name is Wes Whiddon.” “Oh, pardon me,” she says, “I mispronounced your name.” No shit, I say to myself. “Anyway, I'm here to put in your IV line.” She drags a little table over and starts ripping paper off several devices with very sharp points on them. I offer her my arm, she wraps a huge rubber band around it, and starts slapping me on the back of my hand. I've been stuck many times in my life and I'm not afraid to admit that I don't like it. Within a few seconds I start feeling woozy. She continues slapping and I get woozier. She aims the needle at the back of my hand and says, “Big stick coming.” I almost flinch but feel nothing. At first I think she hasn't poked me but I look down and the needle is buried in my flesh. She straps it down with tape and snaps on a plastic line from a big bag of liquid that's hanging overhead. “I'll be back when you're ready to go in for the procedure, she says. “OK,” I say. Then.....I wait.

Guys just HAVE to do macho things. When I first undressed and put on the despicable rag I lay in the recliner not moving. But, thirty minutes later, buck naked with nothing between me and the frigid hospital environment except one micron of cotton cloth, my body is crying for heat. I don't want to admit I'm cold but my legs are beginning to tremble. I realize that in short order my knees will be knocking together, so I ask the nurse for a blanket. In a couple of minutes she comes back with one, unfolds it, and lays it across my body. It’s warm as fresh toast. I snuggle into it and my knees stop their anxious movement. Microseconds later the curtain flips open. It’s Nurse Ratchet. “Mr. Whinn, uh, I mean Whiddon, we’re ready for you.” Now I have to figure out how to get from the waiting area to the procedure room without exposing my ass end to the entire world. Not a problem. Nurse Ratchet snatches off my blanket, helps me up, and drapes it across my back. I grab the IV line, tuck the bottle under my arm, and we head out across the polished tile floor. Now I know what the funny socks with rubber bottoms are for.

Ratchet and I shuffle out of the prep area into the hallway. We make some turns, go through a few doors, and just before we get to the procedure area, I meet a guy who looks vaguely familiar. “Good morning, Mr. Whinndon,” he says. It’s the doctor, the same guy who, a week ago, was poking his finger into my parts unknown. I mentally consider the depth of poking that I’m about to receive and think maybe the finger wasn’t that bad after all.

We get inside the procedure room and I lay back on the gurney. “Turn on your left side,” Nurse Ratchet says. I roll over and lay there hoping beyond hope that one of the bulls of Pomplona isn't positioned just out of site, head lowered, ready to charge. Another nurse comes in the room. This one looks more official than Nurse Ratchet. She moves toward a tray near my gurney. At first I can’t tell what she’s doing but when she turns toward me, she’s holding the biggest hypodermic syringe I have ever seen. It’s not very fat but it’s a foot long if it’s an inch. She advances ominously toward me, grabs the plastic line dangling from the IV bottle, and says, “This may sting a bit. See you after a while.” She inserts the needle into a section of the line and gives it a squirt. I expect to feel searing pain but there’s nothing. A minute goes by. Two minutes go by. I don’t feel a thing. I say, “I’m not feeling sleepy at all.” “Oh. OK. We can take care of that.” The needle starts toward the IV line…

I’m at peace. The world is a soft and easy place. I’m floating on beautiful, white, fluffy clouds. Then, in the distance, there’s the muted sound of thunder. The clouds begin to darken. The thunder gets louder and louder. A storm is brewing. I hear someone say, “If you need to break wind, go right ahead.” I realize it’s all over and I’m farting like a racehorse. Thunder indeed.

The storm subsides and the next thing I know, I’m bending down to tie my shoes. I get them tied for the most part but can’t seem to understand that the straps at the top of my cross-trainers have to be tightened. A wheelchair materializes behind me and I settle back into it. We roll through the doors and hallways, shoe straps flapping, and somehow I’m outside in the driveway. My wife helps me into the car. I’m still befuddled and have to be reminded to put my legs inside. Nurse Ratchet says, “Have a good day, Mr. Whinndon.” I lean back into the headrest and as we pull out of the clinic driveway, I glance in the passenger side rearview mirror. There’s a huge, black bull behind us. His horns are gleaming in the morning sunlight. The car is accelerating but the bull is gaining ground. I try to yell at my wife to speed up but nothing comes out. The bull is getting closer every second.

“Honey! Are you OK?” I jerk upright and look around. I’m at home on the couch. “I was having a real bad dream,” I say. “Oh, I’m sorry”, says my wife. “Well, since you haven’t eaten for a whole day, I’m sure you’re really hungry by now. How would you like to have a big, juicy steak for dinner?”