Trifecta

The first-place horse was named Colonoscopy. It was dark and mysterious. According to my wife, the horse was a sure winner. It was a sure winner in terms of awkwardness. Thanks to recently updated healthcare guidance, the recommended age for colorectal screening has been greatly reduced. As a result, I was between the rock of a logistically risky do it yourself colon-health-mail-away-home-kit and the hard place of a colonoscopy. While the cartoon character promoting the DIY kit was fun-loving and cuddly, I couldn’t risk an errant return to sender situation. Our dog and her affinity for our neighbors’ yards had already earned us an unflattering reputation in the neighborhood, so I placed my bet on Colonoscopy.

I can’t consider it a memorable experience. I only remember the pre-procedure and post-procedure. Pre-procedure, in a semi-meditative state, I watched a fellow patient escape the confines of his curtained cell. With one hand, he clenched the back of his hospital gown as he scurried toward the bathroom. With his other hand, he turned backwards the Houston Astros ballcap that he wore upon his head. I understood the clench. It probably served a dual purpose. Given his impending procedure, I understood his choice of ballcap. I didn’t understand why he turned it backwards. Even though a backward facing ballcap is a cool look, despite public service announcements, colonoscopies are not that cool. They are especially not cool enough to warrant a backwards facing ballcap.

Maybe this pantless pixie was the type to forgo anesthesia. I, for one, was not. Not long after I finished the character analysis of the character, I woke up in post-procedure recovery. Two nurses and a doctor were smiling at me. At least they weren’t laughing or wearing backwards-facing Astros hats. Better yet, at least I didn’t remember why they would be. Then they presented me with the photos.

The second-place horse was off-white and chippy. His name was Root Canal. Soon after we left the surgical center for

Colorectal Health & Embarrassment, I began to crawl out of my anesthesia induced fog and hunger set in. In about 36 minutes, I made up for nearly 36 hours without solid food. During the gorge session, I experienced acute tooth pain. I contorted my mouth like Mick Jagger and noticed the gum around my back molar was inflamed. I chalked it up to an unexplained side effect of the colonoscopy. When the pain did not subside, my 11-year-old daughter, Revi, referred me to the dentist. The dentist rooted Root Canal across the finish line. In celebration he performed a ceremony befit for an ancient civilization upon my tooth. He then had the audacity to invite me back for a dental cap. In a stroke of ironic misfortune, my insurance pre-claim for the cap was denied, because the root-canal caused our annual insurance payout to reach its dental cap.

The third-place horse was dirty-yellow and disfigured. His name was Corn. Partly afraid of the dentist and partly afraid of our dental insurance, I ran out of the dentist’s office. I didn’t run very far on account of a needling and burning sensation on my foot. This time I didn’t trust my daughter with the diagnosis. Instead, I trusted Google. With the help of Google, Corn showed itself across the finish line. There are fewer things more descriptively gross than a skin condition described in terms of a vegetable.

As I zoomed-in to get a better look at corn photos from across the globe, a pop-up advertisement appeared for padded medicated adhesive O-rings. I bought the pads. Then something magical happened. The corn gradually became less painful.

With the trifecta won, I sought my winnings. Because of the dentist there was no cash available to collect. Though I did have an unused package of padded medicated adhesive O-rings which I have since repurposed. My nipples no longer chafe when I run in cold weather.