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.

 

Overhead Overload

Carolyn J. Rose

Confession: I’m an anxious flier.

I tend to view planes—especially jumbo models—as chunks of metal that shouldn’t be able to get off the ground, let alone cross continents and oceans. I worry that the laws of lift might change in the middle of a flight.

I worry about the specific plane I’m on. How old is it? How well maintained?

I worry about the crew. How much training and experience? How much sleep did they get last night? What’s the state of their mental health? Are they easily distracted?

I worry about the airport screening process and what might have been missed. I worry about items that could be weapons—scarves and high heels and heavy objects.

I worry about my fellow passengers. Who is angry? Whose cough is spreading disease? Who will infringe on my personal space and privacy? Who will talk my ear off or try to convert me to their religion or sell me a time share in Duluth?

I worry about whether I’ll make my connection. And I worry about whether my luggage will follow me to my destination in a timely manner.

And that leads to worrying about the weight of the luggage on board. Not so much luggage stowed in the cargo area, but the bags, backpacks, briefcases, and bundles crammed into the overhead bins.

After watching passengers shift and shove and wedge what seems like massive amounts of gear, I worry that the plane will be top heavy and tilt to one side. I worry that stuff sliding in the bins will unbalance the plane during a critical move—like that turn that comes right after takeoff. You know, the maneuver where the plane seems to stand on one wing. The maneuver where the view from the window you’re seated beside is of the ground directly below.

I wonder what’s in those sacks and cases. I wonder what’s so important that passengers have to keep it close. And I worry about a society where the words “you can’t take it with you” don’t seem to mean what they did when I was young, where storage units seem to spring up like mushrooms, and where so many of us seem to travel heavy instead of traveling light.