Starting the Morning on an Empty Stomach

The disclosure form the receptionist handed me after I checked in indicated, among other things, that the procedure for which I was scheduled could possibly chip a tooth, puncture my stomach, or even kill me. I found it a fairly off-putting and disconcerting way to begin, but having fasted through the night and morning and suffering acutely from caffeine-deprivation crankiness, I was in no mood to back out now. Beyond the whole "possibility-of-death-as-a-side-effect" thing, I did have one serious concern. Following the description of the "mild sedation" in store for me, the disclosure form noted that the drugs involved "might prevent me from remembering the procedure." I found that possibility completely inadequate. I wanted an iron-clad guarantee that not so much as a residue of memory would remain. After all, what about this procedure did I want to hang onto: a doctor I knew only superficially and two nurses that I had never met were about to shove a garden hose with a camera attached down my throat for a little "look-see." Nothing about that little exercise sounded even remotely like something I would someday want to tell my grandkids about. I was not interested in vague or partial or foggy memories of the moment; I was interested in the total absence of them.

One bright spot in the description was that, unlike the colonoscopy I had thoroughly enjoyed two years ago, this procedure would only take a few minutes to complete -- 10; maybe 15 at the most.

I looked around me in the waiting room, into the faces of half-a-dozen others who were similarly and palpably euphoric about the privilege of beginning their morning this way. Eyes occasionally darted nervously around the room, but never into other eyes. Eye-contact with others seemed implicitly prohibited, as if deep down there was a shared sense that the photography session waiting for us beyond those doors was somehow pornographic. Most of us, after all, tend to be fairly discreet when it comes to exposing our colons and esophagi. When my name was called, I felt moreso than saw the furtive glances of sympathy and solidarity from those around the room momentarily distracted from the out-of-date magazines they were pretending to read.

After reciting my name and birthday for the 4th time since arriving, I donned my lovely gown and offered my hand to the nurse for what proved to be a lengthy excavation project in search of a vein. "How are you doing?" she repeatedly asked, but I was too busy trying to have an out of body experience to answer. She seemed so proud of me, once the jabbing was completed, that I had only lost my color; I hadn't actually fainted. I felt so proud.

Soon after, two other total strangers wheeled me into another room where so many wires were attached to me that I began to feel like a home entertainment center. The doctor came in, expressed his own interest in the date of my birth, emptied a couple of syringes into my IV, indicated that we would be getting started shortly, and once again left the room. "Fine," I thought as I closed my eyes for a second to gather my spirits and wait.

When I opened them a minute later I started to encourage the nurse to get this show on the road. I was ready to get this over with, after all, and get on with making up for lost coffee time. But then I realized it wasn't the nurse, after all, sitting nearby, but Lori asking me how it went.

"It's over?" I queried.

"It's over," she responded.

"Well it's about time," I responded before dozing back off to sleep.

So, what happened? The truth is that I haven't the faintest idea. I don't remember a thing.