Yesterday was colonoscopy day. Not mine, good heavens. If ever there comes a time something enters the back way, I assure you it won’t be conversation worthy. I escort a dear friend. I will not divulge even her nickname lest you guess her identity and she, then, may feel obliged to spill my secrets.
She is crabby, says she. I don’t really notice. She had to guzzle the concoction that makes one clear everything out for the big show. It’s made her out of sorts, tired and feeling empty. Get it? I try to cheer her but as I refuse to acknowledge ladies use the bathroom for anything other than lipstick blotting I’m not getting very far.
I catch up on emails while she undergoes “the procedure.” When called back to recovery is when the festivities begin. A cacophany of wind instruments hits me upon entrance. Nurses flit about discussing the importance of gas passing. I tilt my chin higher pretending not to hear. Or smell.
My sweet doll is still sound asleep so I pull the chair closer to her bedside and stroke her hand. An older gentlemen, evidently without his hearing aids, is on the other side of the curtain.
“Mr. X, you can’t leave until you pass gas. It’s very important,” the nurse scolds.
“What’s that?” yells Mr. X.
“I say, you must pass gas,” louder this time. “It’s very important for you to pass gas.” She attempts to leave. The swift swish of the curtain gives her away.
“What’s that she says?” Mr. X yells to whomever is with him on the other side. So far, and still, his companion remains mute.
The nurse pulls back the curtain again. “I said pass gas. Mr. X, the bottom line is the more you fart the better.” This duchess is embarrassed for her. Having to utter such a statement in the workplace-horrors. It’s the only four letter f-word that’s never left my lips.
“Oh,” says Mr. X as if someone flipped the switch to the light above his head. He complies with a gust so loud and long, I fear for steadiness within my chair.
My dear friend crinkles her nose and slowly opens her eyes to the world.
She calls out, “Oh, hello” a little louder than she would in a non-propofyl induced state. The doctor said propofyl is her drug and the mind races to Michael Jackson. I did have the urge to jostle her a bit as I got nervous over her deep and lengthy sleep.
She tells of her journey, many times, and brags over her low blood pressure number. Eight times. She adds, “It’s my claim to fame, my low blood pressure.” I smile and congratulate her on blood movement throughout her body.
“Oh no,” says she. “Did I…”
“Not that I know of,” say I.
I’m sticking with my story. After all, she’s a Duchess Doll and it simply in’t possible that she would use the “F” word.