Close Encounters With an Invasive Species

 Carolyn J. Rose

 

 

When I hear the term “invasive species” I don’t think about murder hornets or hogweed or gypsy moths or pythons. Nope. I think about the folks who work in the medical suite labeled “gastroenterology.” I think about the folks who perform colonoscopies, and I try not to think about those who conduct flexible sigmoidoscopies. In my opinion, if that procedure had been around in medieval times, there would have been no need for the rack or thumbscrews.

When I turned 50, my doctor informed me it was time to have a look at my large intestine. Thinking this meant some kind of a scan or X-ray, I nodded agreement. Then she uttered the words “flexible sigmoidoscopy.” It was a term I’d never encountered, but the flexible part sounded okay. Bending and twisting was becoming more of a chore very year, so flexibility was a good thing. The sigmoidoscopy part puzzled me. The first part of the word made me think of Freud. Maybe I’d emerge from the procedure with insights into my actions and relationships. The experience might be emotionally painful, but worthwhile. That left the oscopy portion of the word. While I was puzzling over its derivation, the doctor explained the procedure.

 My brain let out a long shriek of dismay. My mouth followed suit. “They do what? They put a camera where?”

 She explained in greater detail, assuring me it was no big deal.

 Easy for her to say. “I’ll be asleep, right?”

 “No”

 “But I’ll get drugs to relax me, right? Valium or something, right?”

 “You won’t need anything. You’ll do fine without drugs.”

 As a rule, I’m in favor of passing on meds unless they’re absolutely necessary. Others may be more rigid about the meaning of “necessary,” but this situation met my definition. So I begged. I pleaded. I sniffled.

She didn’t relent. So, a week later, after hours of fasting and more hours of quality time on or near the porcelain throne, I went to meet my fate. Two young men positioned me on a gurney with all the padding of an interstate highway. Then they prepared to shove a tube up a part of my anatomy where the sun doesn’t shine. As I knew they would, they told me to relax.

I laughed in a grim way and asked if either of them could relax if the situation were reversed. They didn’t answer. I took that for a resounding “NO.”

As a child I had been cautioned against passing wind in public. My sphincter muscles are always on alert, ready to clamp down on an emission that might make a telltale sound and/or carry with it an embarrassing odor. But the sigmoidoscopy procedure involves pumping in air to inflate the colon. And air that goes in also comes out. So the sphincter got a workout. And so, apparently, did the equipment. It broke down. I was informed I’d have to reschedule.

 This was back before texting was so prevalent so I didn’t say “WTF?” I laid down the complete words. And more than once. Then I called my doctor and asked if the test was absolutely necessary. When she said she felt it was, I demanded drugs for the retake. She didn’t tell me to suck it up and stop whining but, once again, she refused. She claimed I’d have no problem relaxing because I knew what to expect.

That, of course, was exactly why I wanted drugs. So, after abandoning the idea of shopping for pills in a gritty part of town, I recalled I’d been allowed to sip clear liquids. With that in mind, I went for a muscle relaxer I had on hand. I filled a half-quart bottle with gin and tonic and started sipping on the way to the procedure.

 My stomach was empty. My intestines were cleaned out. The gin hit like a hammer.

 I sipped in the waiting room. I sipped as I slipped on one of those gowns with rear ventilation. I sipped as I clambered up on the gurney. When they stuck the tiny camera up my butt, I gave up on sipping and swallowed the remainder of my drink.

Embarrassment no longer mattered. Passing wind no longer mattered. Whether the equipment might break down again no longer mattered. I was relaxed. So relaxed that when I got off the gurney I wobbled into a wall. So relaxed the technicians called my long-suffering husband in to help me get dressed.

Years later, about to be put under for my first colonoscopy, I told the anesthetist about my flex sig experience. “I’ll put you deep,” he assured me. And he did. I had a great nap. I never knew the invasive species were there.

 

THREE DAYS OF ROCKIN', ROLLIN' AND ROAD FOOD

 

I have found out that there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them is to travel with them.

                        Mark Twain.

    

All things considered, Carolyn and I travel remarkably well together. We've been to Australia, England, and on dozens of excursions on America's highways and never once has a serious death threat been issued. 

Recently, we packed up Big Red, backed out of the driveway and set out for Northeastern Oregon on a "make-good" three day trip. Here's a view of what we mostly saw as we drove the mountainous roads on the March adventure.

With high hopes we wouldn't end up mid-blizzard again, we set out. I'm proud to say we logged hundreds of miles without a wrathful word being spoken. There were several dozen incidences of general good-natured snarkiness, but no real anger. 

    First stop, Pendleton for lunch. We ate at Joe's Fiesta, a Mexican restaurant with big portions and an owner with an even bigger personality. Across the street was my favorite business sign of the trip. 

Correct pronunciation would make it Mo Fuh. But you get the idea. After lunch we rolled down the road to Joseph, with only a short stop to say hello to Holly at the charming little library in Wallowa.

The last time we were in Joseph in March it looked like this.

This time was mo' bettuh (as opposed to Mo Pho)

Joseph has a lot of 'old west' style charm, with many well-restored original buildings and lots of artsy-type stuff to look at and buy. 

We stayed at a classic American-style motel, the Indian Lodge, which was built by legendary character actor Walter Brennan "back in the day." 

The motel featured reasonable prices, comfortable beds and showers with enough water pressure to send your skin cells dashing for cover.  

Favorite story from Joseph. In the morning we wandered down the seven or eight blocks of main street to have breakfast. We came to the Cheyenne Cafe and encountered a codger, all five-foot nothing and 95 pounds of him, hobbling along on a cane toward the door. "Best damn breakfast in Joseph," he croaked. We thanked him and went in. As we ate, we watched a table loaded with grizzled old-timers swapping lies and hooting and hollering at a table by the wall. The codger we'd encountered sat by himself on table down from them. Now, the walls of this place were festooned with all kinds of memorabilia and humorous (depending on your politics) signs. After enjoying what was a very good breakfast, I sidled up to the register to pay. I pointed at one sign that read WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO STORMY.  "Who's Stormy? I asked. With a rueful sigh our waiter pointed at the codger we'd met at the door. I know there must be a story there, but I didn't ask. 

    Next we drove up to the Hell's Canyon Overlook on a narrow, twisty highway. We averaged maybe 25 mph. But when we got there it was well worth it. The view was glorious.

 We drove back to Pendleton for our final night's stay. After being told the "Working Girl's Hotel" a refurbished Bordello downtown was booked for months in advance, we settled for a Best Western. We ate at Sister's Cafe, opting for salads to offset the steady stream of road food we'd poured into our bodies. Cheetos and Jerky are tough on the digestive system. Great meal, after we got them to turn down the ear-splitting country-western music so we could hear our food. 

We capped our trip off with a tour through the Pendleton Underground.

Exit Stage Right Pursued 
by Bear

      

After escaping the predator in the lobby, we followed our tour guide Cricket (honest that was her name) through the winding tunnels and into the historic saloons, card rooms, Chinese laundries candy stores and brothels that have been restored     under the streets. 

We drove home along I-84. For my money this is one of the most spectacular Interstate highway stretches in America. The Gorge is (wait for it . . . wait for it.) Gorgeous. 

Oh, and for the record, I love all the windmills on the clifftops. I'm not among those who believe they spoil the natural beauty of the place. 

All in all, we chalk this one up as a successful excursion. Lots of great country we hadn't seen before, sing-along tunes on the mp3 player, road food and no need to hit the speed dial for a divorce lawyer.