Ft watermelon (half)

**TW: medical stuff**

*TW: shit. (Literally.)*

I’m in a new country and understand absolutely nothing. So I call the referral line my doctor gave me.

The nicest old lady answers.

“Ah yes. One second. I’ll book you in.”  
In English too.

Bless this woman. She’s carrying all my hopes and dreams of not having cramps on a semi-regular basis.

Fast forward to colonoscopy day.

I’m sweating bullets before I even leave the house. We order an Uber and the smallest car on Earth shows up.

My boyfriend is 6’6”. His head is touching the roof. He’s chatting with the driver while I’m counting my sins and praying to the universe that I’ve shaved every part of my body correctly.

Also that the bowel prep I drank doesn’t make a surprise reappearance in this poor man’s car.

I’m wearing what I can only describe as “I’d like to be taken seriously. Not like I have a stick up my ass. More like I have a camera up my ass and that’s totally ok”

We arrive.

I get out normally.

My boyfriend gets stuck in the Uber door.

The driver is laughing.

I’m laughing.

My boyfriend bless his soul is lifting the car when he gets out awkwardly. 

We make our way to the entrance and because karma is both real and immediate, I ask into what I think is an empty hallway 

“Are these pants riding up my ass?”

The elevator doors open.

The elevator is full.

The most silent elevator known to mankind has betrayed me. I spend the ride considering whether death is still an option. Eventually we make it to the office and it’s nice. 

It’s small doesn’t smell like bleach and I’m sure someone’s grandma did the decor. 

The tiniest and most adorable nurse on Earth is helping someone else while I sit there trying to pray to literally anyone who might be listening.

I’ve watched about seventy TikToks about colonoscopy prep. The last one I saw before leaving the house was about complications.

Excellent for nerves. 

A few minutes later I’m called in.

My doctor is a gentleman in his late sixties. He looks exactly like the man who cycles past you uphill without breaking a sweat or casually hikes a mountain before breakfast and you hate yourself for being so unfit. 

He asks questions. My boyfriend translates. Everything is going smoothly.

Then the doctor says in a solemn tone: 

“And I’ll give you something to help you relax.”

I pause.

“Wait. You’re not putting me under?”

“No.” No.

Okay.

Apparently we’re doing this awake. No big deal.

Just me.  
A tiny camera.  
And whatever dignity I still have left.

I’m led into the procedure room and handed what I can only describe as a towel designed for ants.

This is apparently sufficient coverage for a medical procedure.

I have my doubts.

The tiny amazing nurse is everywhere at once. She’s reassuring me. Getting my boyfriend a chair. Making sure I’m okay.

Meanwhile I’m apologizing so often that the word “sorry” has lost all meaning.

Then it starts.

It hurt.

Not as badly as I expected.

Honestly I’ve had dentist appointments that were worse.

I’ve also attended family gatherings during election season. Those were definitely worse.

I’ll spare everyone the details of the inside of my body.

The important thing is that we now know why I’m in pain.  
I do not need a replacement for my ass.  And I only cried for about half of the procedure (this is progress I swear) 

Which feels like a personal achievement.

Afterward I’m given juice and a snack. Then I’m sent on my way.

I’m still not convinced any of this warranted the level of panic I achieved beforehand.

Naturally I apologize a few more times before leaving.

**At least I’m not bleeding anymore.**

I now know what’s wrong with me