Colonoscopy

There is no intuition or preconceived notion that can survive five minutes of open conversation.  The room filled quickly.  Patients and drivers.  Patients’ heads hung slightly having survived the indignity of prepping and preparing for one type of scope or another to penetrate their intensely private places.  I was a driver.  We drivers acted like golf caddies.  We gave unwanted counsel laced with banal encouragement.  We carried the stuff – bags of personal items and clothes  our patient had exchanged for those sought-after gowns with the open back and a single tie at the neck.

Drivers are there to serve but not much actual work is required.  So the bulk of our time was given to averting our eyes while we judged the others filling the waiting room.  Using clandestine glances and surreptitious eavesdropping, I built a mental story about the folks in the room – stories, like most judgments, that were devoid of doubt. 

I’m rarely one who initiates talk with a stranger but that day I did.  He wore a long sleeved denim shirt with the logo of Texas A & M university appliquéd on the breast pocket.  The t-shirt underneath had the wide neck hem made of a heavy cotton fabric – just the sort of t-shirt favored by construction craftsmen. 

When he chose the chair next to me, I bent to move the bag by my feet so it wouldn’t obstruct his room.  A friendly smile filled his face and he said, “Sir, that’s not necessary.  I have plenty of room.”  He called me “sir.”  It struck me as odd as though he thought I looked old.  After only a moment I realized the mannerly address had nothing to do with me.  It was a glimpse into the character of the man who sat an arm’s-length away.

For several minutes, while we sat in that overheated, overcrowded waiting room, I rolled the idea of initiating a conversation through my head.  What could happen anyway?  He might just be annoyed with the interruption to his reading and blow me off.   But I did have a story, a compliment actually, about Texas A & M which I had already decided was his alma mater. 

I nodded and leaned slightly forward and said, “My wife and I attended a basketball game in College Station a couple of years ago.  We were taking a short vacation to the Texas Hill Country.  An acquaintance we made at the B & B offered to arrange tickets for the game between A & M and Mizzou, our alma mater.  We’ve frequently told the story of how very well we were treated by everyone we encountered at the university or in the town of College Station.  It was the best experience we’ve ever had as fans of the visiting team,” I said.  A simple introduction rather than a soliloquy was what I intended but once I started, I nervously rambled on.

His round face was accented by a neatly trimmed gray beard and moustache.  As he listened to me, his smile grew as his eyes widened.  His cheeks rose into pinkish balls and his forehead lifted the corners of his graying hair.  He replied, “My son-in-law teaches there.  He teaches chemistry.  My daughter is a teacher too.  She teaches chemistry in high school.  They both got their undergraduate degrees at Missouri S&T in Kirksville.  My wife and I hoped they would stay nearby but the job at A&M was too good to pass up.”   I could relate.  Both of our daughters moved away after college so I could feel the words he left unsaid.  He hoped that his daughter and her family would return to be closer – sometime soon.

As a proud grandpa, I pressed on.  I thought there might be common ground so I asked, “Do you have any grandchildren yet?”

The smile fell from his cherubic face.  Not sadness really, but the look of being lost led his eyes into an unfocused stare.  “I did,” he said.  “My grandson only made it for a few weeks.  I never know how to answer that question.”  Kindness filled his features but the smile didn’t return and his eyes were still seeing a memory.

As the silence grew awkward, all I could muster in response was, “I’m so sorry.  That has to be harder than I can imagine.  I apologize for bringing back that pain.”

So that’s why opening a conversation with a stranger is like walking into a minefield.  I thought we might make small talk about sports and our families.  Instead his eyes returned to his book and I looked around the waiting room hoping to see a place to hide.

As I reopened my book, he asked, “Do your children live close by?”  I glanced at him and saw the friendly small smile had returned.  In the next ten minutes, I shared all about our daughters, their husbands and our grandsons.  I shared the stuff, the really good stuff, that always occupies the top of my mind.  In those same minutes, I learned he had grown up in Fargo, ND and most of his family still lives there.  He has an 88 year old mother and it takes 9 ½ hours to drive to Fargo –almost the same amount of time it takes to get to College Station, Texas.  He is 61 and planning carefully for retirement.  Part of that plan included an RV so he could go visit his family wherever they are. 

“Our needs are simple,” he said.   “We’ll be fine with what we’ve put away.”  He asked me if I was retired.   I told him that I was.  He asked, “How do you like it?” 

“I really love it.  I get to watch my grandsons in their sports, concerts or activities at school.  Unscheduled time that I can fill on a moments notice is the greatest kind of freedom.  Yes, retirement is great.”  His smile was big as he said, “That’s what I expect it to be.  Grandkids will be coming and I can think of lots of ways that I can use time better than I ever have.  It’ll be great.”

Just then the nurse called for Jeff.  His patient, his wife, had completed her ordeal and her driver was needed.  He got up, we acknowledged each other with a nod, and he disappeared into the recovery area.  He left his cap and jacket in his chair giving me hope he would return so we could close our talk with an introduction and a handshake and perhaps a chance to plan to meet again.

Before he returned it was my turn to be called.  My daughter, had completed her ordeal.  She looked great and did very well.  The test results were good news.  My job as driver was to get the car and pick her up at the door and as a bonus, I got to share breakfast with my daughter – just the two of us.  I love those times.

When I was headed out of the recovery room, I heard his voice.  He was talking and chuckling with his wife so her news must have been pretty good too.  His name was Jeff.  That’s really all I know except some of the truth and pain of his life, the future he wants and the character of a stranger who I hope might cross my path again.   I cannot remember what story I’d made up about him before he called me “sir.”
                                                                                                     --td