OCT 3, 2006

In the end of the beginning of my day today, I saw a sign that gave me hope.  This was after I found the Gonda Building in the sprawling campus of the Mayo Clinic; after I stood in line in an admissions area that looked nothing like a hospital check-in and everything like the world’s most gracious, luxurious airport waiting lounge; after I received my boarding pass — or rather, a ticket-like slip of paper for me to present upon arrival at the gastroenterology department; after I marveled at the grandeur and splendor and wonder of the whole lobby — not just an airport but, given the décor and the hushed tones and the languages haunting the space in said tones, a museum and an embassy and a place of worship; after I marveled at a towering statue, at least 20 feet tall, of an Adam-like man, naked as a patient on an operating table but for a appropriately-scaled leaf placed over his nether regions (in a manner that suggested it was a late addition, mandated by the patron who commissioned the work for the clinic); and after I rode an Art Deco elevator to the 19th floor — the very top! — and, upon arriving, stepped out to see an official sign indicating the way to the gastroenterology department and the direction of the restrooms, the latter off to the left, in the vicinity of a hand-lettered sign affixed to a stanchion, indicating that the line began around the corner, which I found a useful bit of information and not unexpected given that, presumably, there were lots of us creaky-colon types around, and we would need to queue up to get into one of the few available stalls.

It made me wonder if they give in-office rectal exams with giant foam “We’re #1!” hands instead of latex gloves.  More than that, though, it served as comfort: if anyone on the planet can fix this broken vessel, it’s the people here. 

And so I sat in the waiting room and filled out forms and began anticipating the miracles ahead: the IVs dripping elixir of life, the preternaturally soothing hands, the cutting-edge, side effect-free drugs and treatments.  In short, the changing of life, the curing of ills.  Here, I hoped, was a secular Lourdes, endowed with the profoundest of powers of modern medicine. 

Eventually, I felt a vibration from my clinic-issued pager – a device more suited for the Cheesecake Factory, now that I think about it, than the ward of wish-granters and miracle-workers – and followed the nurse – heavyset, navy blue scrubs, thick mustache . . . no halo – to the doctor’s office. 

The computer was new and the magazines were recent; everything else was circa 1975, including the exam table, the head area of which was propped up at a slight angle with a phone book and a three-ring binder.  This was something short of my expectations, I have to admit, calling to mind the decrepit clinics featured in movies about the rough life in either a) redneck rural backwaters or b) impoverished urban ’hoods – put a pregnant teen mom in there, add a young-but-tough doctor out to challenge the system and make a difference in the community, play some stirring music in the background, and you have this week’s Inspirational Family Movie Event. 

Instead, sans soundtrack, your typical middle-aged (but tough-looking!) doctor strolled in, looked through my charts, asked me to recount my medical history, asked me to turn and cough (and what does that have to do with my colon?!) and did the perfunctory physical examination.  Music did not swell.  But he did utter inspirational lines, or at least optimistic ones, ones that made me think that maybe this script doesn’t end with the protagonist lying in the gutter and cursing the stars. 

There may be a way out of this yet.  But first, the protagonist has to go through some tests.  That’s fine, I guess – a script without drama, without tribulation, without a chance for the strapping young man at the core of the story to prove his (or his colon’s) worth . . . well, that’s no script at all. 

And so, in about two weeks, I shall return to the wondrous corridors of the Mayo Clinic, with newfound anxieties and a Fleet-cleansed colon, as well as renewed hope for a happy ending.