I’ve always wanted to look inside myself. Now that I have, it turns out to be cooler than I imagined. A little invasive maybe, but I’ve made it this far in my life with very little invasion and few embarrassing doctor visits, so I can’t complain about that.
I’m talking about a colonoscopy that I subjected myself to last Thursday, as a member of the men-over-fifty club. I got to watch the entire procedure on a color TV monitor and it was very cool. The image was not what I expected, I’ll admit, but I was expecting the worst. In fact, it was easy to watch, with an amazingly clear picture. And that nasty stuff they made me drink, MoviPrep, two liters, a product that could’ve been used to clean out Three Mile Island or Chernobyl, did exactly what it was supposed to do, so I had a crystal clear view of my own insides. I figured after all the writing and meditation and solo backpacking and distance running and contemplation and navel-gazing that I’ve done in order to look inside myself, I was obligated to take this opportunity to examine a part of my life in real time. How could I pass that up?
I felt brave and noble for subjecting myself to such close scrutiny by strangers, but Cyndi suggested it wasn’t so much about being brave as about just being a grown-up. I asked if this counted as being in the hospital. “I haven’t been in the hospital since before I was in first grade. Doesn’t this count?” After all, I had to wear one of those hospital dresses that pretends to tie in the back, and I had to pay a lot of money, and a man and woman introduced themselves to me as my nurses, and I got one of those plastic wristbands to wear; but I was out the door and driving away in less than two-and-a-half hours including the time it took to sign my Visa bill. But my friend and medical professional, Holly, said I wasn’t “in the hospital” since I didn’t spend the night, no matter how much it cost me. Well, bummer.
If Cyndi weren’t as subtle as she is, she would probably say I shouldn’t write about something as personal as a colonoscopy, but what does she know? She’s only a rational and smart woman with friends and family who reads these essays, while I am, of course, an artist. A writer. And for writers, nothing is off-the-record.
Which brings me back to the first chapter of this adventure, something that actually took place four weeks ago, immediately following my initial consultation visit with the doctor.
I was standing at the counter ready to pay the bill when one of the office assistants looked around the corner at me and said, “Sir, you look like an author.”
I stopped what I was doing, and I must have blanked out temporarily in surprise, because the other assistants and nurses were laughing at my reaction.
I leaned back where I could see her better and, looking myself up and down for clues, asked, “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. But you look and feel like an author to me. Someone who likes to write.”
As I pulled my credit card from my wallet to pay for the office visit, I replied, “Well, good guess. I do write regularly, and I’ve published a few magazine pieces. And I am working on a book at the present.”
She sucked in her breath and said, “You are working on a book?” as she slowly nodded her head up and down. Then she smiled, still nodding her head, not so much to communicate “I told you so” or “I knew it” but more as if to encourage me. Her expression was friendly yet intense, as if she was calling me out. She said, “You should write; that is who you are.”
Now the other women in the office were laughing and saying, “She does this all the time.”
“Does she ever get it wrong?” I said. They all shook their heads, saying, “No.”
I asked her, “What is it about me that looks like a writer? I don’t have my journal with me, or a book, or a jacket with patches on the elbows, or a fountain pen behind my ear.”
She said, “I don’t know; you just look like a writer. She didn’t react like, “I got another one,” and put another notch on her belt, or pump her fist in the air and say “Yes!” Rather she seemed to step into the moment, using her insight as an opening, and started recommending books to me. They weren’t books I was familiar with, but they were good and thoughtful suggestions. They were books in which, as she said, “The author says things well.” They weren’t obvious books like “How to be a better writer in 30 days,” but books where the writer told a good story.
Through the years, plenty of people have observed that I must be an engineer, usually after hearing me speak or watching me solve a problem. And several people have asked if I was a writer or a teacher, but it was usually when they caught me working on a lesson or writing in my journal. I’ve never had someone peg me as a writer straight out, with no obvious clues.
I left the office that morning so surprised by the entire exchange I forgot to ask the woman her name. I wondered if she was actually looking inside of me and telling me who I was supposed to be, or was she reminding me of something I already knew and calling me out to be brave. It felt like the latter.
I must say I never expected any of this from a medical procedure that I should’ve done two years ago when I first turned fifty. This look inside myself makes me wonder why I’ve waited so long. The time to be brave is now.
