asscam 2023
read on, my friend. the reason for this photo will become apparent.
I am not young. And I’m apparently an early adopter. At least medically.
I started age-appropriate procedures about 7 years early, at 43. And while the result was good, the experience was significantly below average. So, when my doctor advised we go back to the well at 53, well... let’s say I was less than excited.
The good news is, the study regimen for colonoscopies is much easier to get through. Don’t get me wrong, the result is the same. But I didn’t have to drink a gallon of some funky tasting water-like substance this time. I just mixed up some over-the-counter meds with Gatorade, moved all meetings in which I might have to present, cleared a path to the nearest washroom, and let the games begin.
This is probably an appropriate time to fast-forward in the story. No one needs a play-by-play of the day before a colonoscopy.
The morning in question, I felt pretty good. I was reasonably sure I was running on empty, and I was just a little tired. But otherwise, I had no complaints. I had exactly three tasks for this morning, and I was sure I could handle two of them. The other one was going to require some assistance.
Task one was to make sure every hospital employee who came near me knew that trying to stick an IV into the top of my hand is an exercise in futility for even the most skilled phlebotomist. No, I didn’t just type that so I could make you say phlebotomist. But you have to admit, it’s a funny word and it’s kind of fun to say. Well, I guess you don’t have to admit it. You can keep it to yourself. But we’ll both know.
The problem here is that several years ago—the day of my last knee surgery—was the last time someone tried to stick an IV on the top of my hand. It didn’t go well for either of us. She couldn’t find a good vein and, while she was poking around, I decided consciousness was overrated. I woke up surrounded by medical professionals and thinking the surgery was done. It wasn’t. But the IV was in... my forearm, where my veins resemble small garden hoses.
All that to say, I made it clear the forearm was the place to go.
Task two was to fall asleep and let the doctor/alien use his probe to... well, probe. That part was easy. I even got pictures to commemorate the experience. Trust me. My friends and family are relieved I don’t send holiday cards.
My last task was to decide where I wanted to go for breakfast after the procedure. This was by far the hardest of the three tasks. Anyone who knows me knows I am the world’s worst chooser of restaurants and food. But Kim was having none of my nonsense. This was my task to complete.
So, faced with the uncertainty of where to have breakfast and the certainty that I needed to choose a place, I decided to make it a game. More like a survey. I asked anyone and everyone, “If you could go anywhere in Nashville for breakfast, where would it be?” Most of the hospital staff played along, but some of the other patients were a bit perplexed at my breakfast poll. I remember one of the nurses looked very sad when I asked her. It turns out she had just recently moved to the area and didn’t know many places. But because she’s in the care business, she felt bad that she couldn’t help me with such an important decision. So, I gave her a task. I was limited to asking members of my care team and passersby who passed close enough to hear my voice and were interested (or startled) enough to stop and chat. She had no such limitations. So, she became my dutiful survey partner.
Between her intel and my questions, we had compiled a pretty good list of options, including Big Bad Breakfast, Puckett’s, Cracker Barrell, First Watch, and Chik-Fil-A. Puckett’s was the leader in the clubhouse, but I had one more person to ask—the doctor. He was all smiles when he came into the room. I have to confess, that’s a bit unnerving. I’m all for loving your job, but this guy does colonoscopies all day. But I guess I’d rather that than a doc who hates his job.
I didn’t even get a chance to ask him... the nurse and anesthesiologist were all in on the game and jumped right in. I think they were planning their own breakfast and wanted his opinion even more than I did. The question gave him pause, but only for a moment. I could see him putting himself in my gown. I imagined him silently weighing a couple options, and then he came out with it. “You know,” he began, “I’ve always been fond of Noshville.”
The whole staff—except for the new-to-town nurse—gave their approval. She—the new-to-town nurse, had follow-up questions. For a moment, we all forgot about what we were there to do and shared our own Noshville stories. Mine was from the now-closed Franklin location. I had gone there a few times with an old friend and mentor who advised me to be more of a contrarian. I miss you, Bob. You were truly one-of-a-kind.
It didn’t take much to convince our new, young friend that she should try Noshville as soon as reasonably possible. I had a fleeting thought—just before I went under—that we might even see her there that day. Alas, we did not.
So, there you have it. I completed all my tasks and went home with a clean bill of health. Ten more years and we get to do it all again.
Cheers.
