Knit Sisters

Near our house, there is a large funeral home with unseemly bright red awnings that Shelley and I pass by almost every day on our neighborhood walks. They seem to do a land-office business there because we frequently see the undertakers (yes, I realize that now they are referred to as “funeral directors,” an antiseptic and somewhat euphemistic title in my opinion, which is why I greatly prefer the more archaic, yet more robustly descriptive term “undertaker.” Because that’s where they take you. Under.) standing outside in their black suits looking solemn, waiting for someone to bring them a body or perhaps biding their time until mourners show up.

I like to wave to them and holler, “Not today, boys! You’re not getting me today!”

Getting a whiff of the thawing ground, and all the good things that the new season promises.

Those undertakers aren’t getting me anytime soon, either.

Thanks to the talented Dr. F., who—true to her word—did not find anything unusual, unfortunate, or suspicious with her little camera, I am now free of what Lorinda’s people call “the buttoscope” for another decade.

The lone purple crocus, brave little soldier of spring.

I am also free of worry and fear, and it is hard to put a price tag on that. In spite of the fact that everyone said I would be fine, and in spite of the fact that the Incomparable Kate, good friend and commentator extraordinaire, actually looked up the colon cancer statistics for women my age and found that—as she put it—we weren’t dealing with the proverbial horse and zebra scenario, we were dealing with horses and, say, albino sugar gliders…in spite of all that, I had a friend who was the albino sugar glider, and it was hard for me to shake the fear that if it could happen to her, well…

But I was quite proud of myself, because I got through yesterday with only minimal squirrellyness and anxiety and I handled the “preparation” with a good attitude and reasonably good grace. I mean, considering.

Of course, I was up all night, but Alex pretty much stayed up with me, having declared as early as 7 p.m. that he was, “thinking of tonight as like a slumber party, only with one guest who has uncontrollable diarrhea.”

Isn’t that sweet?

I finished this sock during the “party.”

And I had exactly this much yarn left. Marble and small bits of sea glass included for scale.

So I was feeling pretty good by the time I got to the Endoscopy and Buttoscope Center this morning at 6:45 a.m. Pretty. Darn. Good. I was feeling courageous. I was prepared for glory!

That is, until I learned that the adept and skillful nurse who had just run a needle into a vein in my right arm and hooked me up to an IV drip—a minor procedure that nonetheless terrifies me but which I had borne stoically because I was operating in the heroic mode, you see—that that nurse had just come out of her own colonoscopy which she had endured without sedation or drugs of any kind.

Whoa! Gastrointestinal nurses, cowboy up!

She gave me a pat and said, “But I don’t recommend that for anyone else.”

Yeah, no joke. Don’t try this at home, kids. It’s all fun and games until someone loses a polyp. While she is fully conscious.

“Right,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’m no hero.” Truth will out.

But you know, the whole thing really wasn’t that bad. I remember very little of what actually happened during the test. And unlike graduate school, where I am always ten to twelve years older than nearly all my compatriots—in other words, I may as well be Methuselah—I was the youngest person at the Center.

It was kind of fun, what with croci blooming and robins pulling worms out of the ground, to feel like I was the spring chicken. You know, just this once.

And not again for another decade.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, March 28th, 2007 at 9:04 pm and is filed under Sock it to me. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.