This is not a story about my colonoscopy…

This is not a story about my colonoscopy, but there is a colonoscopy in it. Actually, there are two.  The story begins in 2006 when my late-husband, Anson, turned 50.  When you turn 50–just something for those of you under 50 to look forward to– the universe rewards you with an invitation to join AARP and a reminder to get your first colonoscopy.  I drove Anson to the hospital, dropped him off, did some shopping, and went to pick him up two hours later.  He was lying on a bed wearing a johnny in a room with other patients and I remember the room smelling vaguely like…well, farts.  He was groggy and uncomfortable, and I felt sorry for him lying there.  This was the most vulnerable I had ever seen him–drugged, half-naked, surrounded by strangers in a room smelling like farts.  When he felt clear-headed enough to get dressed, we left the hospital and went right to his favorite diner for lunch.

Five years later, I was a widow.  The surrealism of the years just after Anson’s death are difficult to describe.  The pain, the loneliness, the profundity of grief are too great for me to go into here.   Suffice to say that there are thousands of details about life that you don’t think about when you are married but that suddenly come to the surface as a widow.  Who do I call to fix the drier?  If my car is being repaired, who will drive me to work?  Will anyone want to date me now that I’m 46?  Is there anything I can do about the skin on my neck? Does anyone realize how lucky they are to be alive?  And for some reason, one of the questions that bothered me the most was “Who will drive me home from my colonoscopy?”

I actually brought this question up with a man I dated shortly after Anson died.  This man had never been married, had no children, and was five years younger than me.  When I told him that I worried about who would drive me home from my colonoscopy, he grimaced.  “I don’t even want to think about that stuff– I do enough of that for my mom, I don’t need to do that for my girlfriend.”  Needless to say, that relationship didn’t last long.

I’ve said many times since Anson died that I feel like my foundation is gone.  When you are married, even if it is a difficult marriage, there is a sense of continuity, of stability.  You have a go-to person, and if your spouse can’t help you with a certain task, they can at least help you find a stand in.  As a widow, I feel like each scenario is up in the air– who do I ask for help?  And if I ask person A for help this time, I’ll have to find person B for next time so that I don’t wear out my friends’ goodwill.   Who among my friends would be kind enough to meet me at the hospital and see me half-naked in a room that smelled like farts?

Last year, I turned 50.  I got my AARP invitation and my colonoscopy notice.  My health insurance company even offered me a $50 gift card if I got the colonoscopy within a year!  What a deal!  Because I am a “good patient,” I scheduled the consultation and procedure right away.  My 21-year-old son agreed to drop me off at the hospital and pick me up a few hours later.  The preparation was no fun, in spite of all the peach iced tea and Sprite I bought to try to make it more enjoyable.

On the day of the procedure, as I lay on the gurney waiting for the gastroenterologist to begin, I fought back tears.  Lying on a table in a hospital johnny open in the back, surrounded by strangers and cold machines made me feel vulnerable and small.  I didn’t want the anesthesiologist or nurses to think that I was scared– I wasn’t afraid of the procedure.  I just hated the fact that I was alone.  I had been there for Anson when he came out of the anesthesia.  Why couldn’t someone be there for me?

But anesthesia today is so lovely!  One deep breath and I was out.  I woke up a few minutes later in the recovery area– no nausea like I remembered from the anesthesia of my youth.  The nurses were warm and funny and they were checking on me and bringing me water.  They told me to go ahead and fart– it was good to fart!  But the room didn’t smell bad the way I had remembered with Anson’s procedure.  There were other patients around me; some had friends picking them up, some had spouses, some had adult children.  I had survived! I actually felt great.  And all these people, at different phases of later adulthood, with different life situations– we all had found rides home.   The nurse called my son; he was on his way to get me, so I got dressed and waited for him.  Other than riding down to his car in a wheelchair, I felt as normal as could be.

So it was over.  My first colonoscopy! (By the way,  SURPRISE! You have to have one EVERY FIVE YEARS!!!) I had done it without a spouse or a boyfriend to drive me home.  It was not a big deal.  So, this is not a story about my colonoscopy.  I had been a widow for four years, and this is a story about learning that  I was going to be okay, alone.