Organ Music

Each year, near my birthday (which now comes at alarmingly short intervals) I schedule a physical. This year, I was told my blood pressure was low (good) and I didn’t appear to have any parasites living with me (my children don’t count).

Yet, during the most demeaning moment of this annual ritual, my doctor said words that strike fear into all males nearing my age: “Your credit card was declined.” Wait, no, that’s not it, it was…

“We need to schedule a laparoscopy.”

Doctors often say the word “we” which generally only means “you”, because I don’t really think he wants to get the “Two for one” Laparoscopy special with me. Same with their receptionists who often say, “…and how do we want to take care of the co-pay today?” in a kind, kindergarten teacher’s voice. Next time I’m tempted to say, “I’m going to pay mine in Candy Land tokens; how about your part?” It won’t be the first office I’ve been kicked out of.

My doctor – whom I truly like – began to describe the Laparoscopy process. He said a Gastroenterologist (Latin for “Your spleen is showing”) will schedule me to come in on a Friday. I already interrupt: “Why Friday?” (I’m thinking it’s to celebrate.)

“Well,” he looks at me over his reading glasses, “because you might need the weekend to rest…” and his voice trailed off like a horror film just before the commercial break. He continued, while sweat formed on my lip.

“On Thursday, you’ll be drinking a mixture of liquid to ‘cleanse’ you completely.” He looked over his glasses again. I could almost hear the organ music. (HA! Get it? Organ music! You don’t get quality humor like this just anywhere.) At this point, I felt it would be inappropriate to ask if by “cleansing liquid” he meant that I would drink a liter of Sprite and shake myself violently until it shot out my nose. (Not that I have any personal experience with that method.) I compose myself.

For the next few minutes, he described the process. What I gathered – and I’m doing my best not to be graphic or technical – is that I would be drinking about 400 gallons of LiquidPlum’r. After this, my organs would be buffed and detailed using a Shop Vac and Orbital buffer. Some of them might need re-chroming. Then, dozens of doctors would recommend an RFP for my EKG hoping I wasn’t NSF.

Okay, that’s what it sounded like to me. I was feeling weak and almost dropped a platelet. After this description, he takes off his serious glasses and asks,

“Does this sound okay with you?”

I immediately wonder, “What happened to the us part?” but decide to ask two important questions instead: 1) Will insurance pay for it? And 2) Will insurance pay for it? My second question was actually, “And what is the purpose of this little procedure?”

He answers solemnly. “It’s to help keep you alive and healthy and loving life for as long as we can.” A bit of silence. Now the insurance question didn’t even rank.

My doctor is no salesman, but he’d clearly crossed the “cost versus benefit” line. Deal closed.