When I'm in a state of dread, I organize. I am not known for my excellent organizational skills, but when confronted with a dreaded medical procedure, my house gets sorted. Fear kicks me into a state of high level focus for the things I have put off. It forces me to take on tasks I wouldn't ordinarily pursue. If I'm feeling vulnerable, I take back control by rearranging the pantry, setting up shelves in the basement, getting shoes off the mudroom floor and into their own individual cubbies, and clearing areas that are piled up with the hodgepodge of life.
I think I have an amicable enough relationship with fear, but I don't want to hang out in a constant state of it. First of all, it's costly in a couple of ways. I bought a shelving unit, banker's boxes, and one morning while dreaming of a tidier and cozier living room, I added a sectional sofa to my virtual cart as if we have unlimited funds. Constant fear and anxiety build up in my body. My lower back ached from all the uprightness. I think I can even blame my hip pain last week partially on this dread inside me, which cranked up my gears of impatience with myself, and resulted in the injury.
What was I dreading? A routine colonoscopy, the award you win for reaching your fifth decade of life. My husband went for his two weeks before me, and I was his wide-eyed guide and support, taking mental notes on the preparation, participating in the fasting required the day before the procedure to see how that felt and also offer some solidarity (who wants to eat in front of a loved one who is fasting?), and taking on the role of "required driver." I worried about him in the waiting room, keeping my eye on the board that announces what phase patients are in like a departures and arrivals board at an airport. I was relieved when I saw he was done, and as he was coming out of his "magical space nap," he had the presence of mind to crack a classic Dan joke that was a play on the word polyp. "What do you get at the end of a colonoscopy? A lollypolyp."
Even though I knew what to expect, and the overall procedure, it didn't keep me from worry. What if I never wake up? What if I'm just a walking sack of colon lumps? What if I'm allergic to the magical space nap, or Miralax, Dulcolax, or Pedialyte? I joked I was going to run away. Seeing everything, knowing I'd likely be fine, was not enough to keep me from wondering, worrying, and dreading, because I didn't know how it would feel.
So I set up candles in the bathroom for the evening of my prep, and had my favorite guilty pleasure reading material handy. Why not make it cozy, right? I busied myself with farm chores, and household upkeep. I followed the procedure, which I won't bore you with here, the likes of which we refer to as The Brown Detour. Then I set my alarm for 3 a.m. for "round two"of timed swill guzzling followed by reading in the candlelit loo.
Tired, but having survived the prep, I did some yoga, showered, and we headed to the hospital. I had my outfit all ready. My husband asked, "You're going to wear those boots?" Yes. They are my favorite shoes. They make me feel like I know where I'm going, even when I don't.
I just completed training for Artists in Healthcare Settings. During Dan's visit, I got the waiting area perspective. There were a few photos that were easy to ignore in the waiting area (the TV dominated), and some children's art in praise of healthcare workers during the pandemic. I saw little to soothe the patient in the hallways or entryway, or anything that actively engaged those waiting for loved ones.
In my post-op room yesterday, there was a large, framed color photograph of a female purple finch. I kept my gaze on it as my IV was inserted, and when I needed to self-soothe. It helped me so much, this photograph that I'd probably not pay too much attention to in any other environment. The rest of the room and the hallway I had full view of was a sensory overload of beeps, alarms, sterile machines, chat about patients and routines. I overheard two nurses discussing a woman in labor and thought, "Oh! Someone is just starting their life today!" and I felt so much happier but totally overwhelmed by the feeling of being older mixed with that joy that I burst into tears. I didn't want that to be translated into fear, because it wasn't, and I didn't have the presence of mind to explain it, so I got it together before another nurse arrived. I would have liked to continue crying. It felt good.
I did not enjoy wheeling into the room where the procedure was done. It was devoid of art, and more like a set for a sci-fi movie, all monitors and glaring lights, and unknown and unexplained devices. My IV was connected to a drip of magical sleep juice, I was given a mask with oxygen, and when the doctor entered, I was told that would be their cue to start the drip. I'd smell something fruity, perhaps, and drift off. I closed my eyes, listening to my elevated heart rate on the monitor, my nose begging for fruity sniffs, and when I smelled the anesthesia, I thought, "It's happening." Then I was out, off, over, to wherever it is you go when you're given anesthesia.
I woke up, and said the word "spacey" about a dozen times. I felt like my mind was returning from having been on the moon. I felt floaty, not a bad headspace, but still eager for the booted feet of my mind to touch the Earth. When they did, I was given apple juice and the result everyone wants: colon as empty as a French Horn, and as musical as one for the rest of the day, too.
I am not a walking sack of polyps. I was not allergic to anything. I woke up. I survived. I don't need to return for another ten years. My dread and fear were replaced with relief, for now. I had the overwhelming desire to call my mother, and tell her I'm ok, and for us to share a laugh about the pregnancy test I was given before the procedure.
When I return at 62 I will not get that test, but someone will be born that day in the very same building, their spirit in full float, then touching down as a fresh explorer in a new world.
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