Cheated Death Again!

 We all have demons, and mine live in the world of anxiety. Typically, I worry after those closest to me -- a LOT! But I have another way it manifests: a strange form of hypochondria.

I say strange, since I don't go through life thinking I have a dread disease. I am not at all germophobic -- when good pizza falls on the floor, I use the 3 MINUTE rule. Hell -- I've eaten stuff I've taken out of our dogs' mouths.

But every so often, fortunately every few years or so, I decide that some modest symptom means the beginning of the end. I had a high PSA, which most every aging dude has. I decided I had Stage IV prostate cancer, until a negative biopsy said otherwise.

I am blessed to rarely, if ever, get headaches. When they came a decade or so ago, I knew it was the incurable glioblastoma coming to get me -- an MRI ordered by our neighbor and friend Jose must have cured it.

And then I realized I had blown past my colonoscopy -- it was supposed to be in 2023 -- I was a year late. My primary doc Rigo said try Cologard. I did, and it was POSITIVE. That was it, I started emailing Wifey and the Ds updated information on financials and wills -- all in advance of a colonoscopy my affable young GI set for this am.

Yesterday was prep day, which is now much more humane with 24 pills and water instead of the viscous, awful tasting gallons of seawater-like fluid you took in the old days. Apparently I did a good job.

So early this am, Wifey and I drove over to the Baptist Endoscopy Center. I checked in at 630 -- I was the first case. They got me set...and then a problem. High blood pressure. I know I have classic "White coat syndrome," where anxiety about medical stuff causes the pressure to rise. I explained it to the nurse, but she was ambivalent. Great. If they postponed my learning my fate, I would DEFINITELY have hypertension. Fortunately it dropped after another nurse had me do some relaxing breathing.

And then I said hello to Dr. Shah, they pushed the propofol, and off I went -- to the deepest, best sleep possible. I've had propofol twice, and totally understand how it killed Michael Jackson. My brain rarely slows down -- his must have been "on" all the time, and propofol shuts it down and truly de-anxieties you. Problem is, as we learned, if your doc falls asleep at the switch -- well the "milk of amnesia" works permanently.

I awoke in recovery and Wifey was there -- waiting for Dr. Shah with me. She excused herself to go to the bathroom, and she was replaced by a large man -- Dr. Barry.

20 or so years ago, for my first procedure, I whistled past the graveyard so much with him, he showed up at Baptist, to comfort Widow Wifey if I was correct.

He decided to reprise, or "bookend" the experience -- he came over SO early and there he was. My man.

I introduced him to Dr. Shah, and hopefully shamed HIM into getting tested, too. Barry said I violated HIPAA. I reminded him it didn't apply to me.

I got dressed, we charmed some staff with Dad humor, and the three of us retired to Roasters for a delicious breakfast. We talked of our upcoming simcha -- Scott and Sam's wedding. Now that Dr. Shah hasn't handed me a death sentence, we can book our trip.

Also, I can enjoy RH properly Wednesday night AND Friday night. D2 suggested maybe we have dinner together, as the Ds are each with their consuegros. She is SO smart...

I always think to myself it's possible to get through this life without true friends, but I have no idea how to, really.

The scope DID show some diverticulosis, or some pouches. I read that 50% of people over 50 have that. D1, inheritor of all her Dad's snark and sarcasm, noted "How strange you have a condition endemic to obese, old men."

Note to self: as I put away my estate documents, maybe adjust the percentages a little. Ha. Not really. I AM old and fat, and, for now, going to go on living.

And for that, as always, I give thanks to the Big Man. The Man even bigger than Barry, who is a big man, too.