I wasn’t sure at first, I thought maybe I had been eating too many berries and beets, but then I started to fatigue quickly while playing pickup soccer after watching World Cup games over the summer. That was the first time I had felt mortally helpless since developing my concept of death which had started the day I threw my toy boat in the river and had concluded sometime around age eleven on a sunny spring day in Prospect Park after I scored three goals in an AYSO soccer game when I decided that I was too young to worry about dying and would revisit the subject at a more appropriate age. But after one pickup game where I couldn’t keep up with middle-aged dads, I had to reckon with physical regression.

The first doctor I saw was a convenient gastroenterologist, ten-minute walk from my house. His office had groaning brown leather chairs, generic art on the walls, and smelled of corduroy. My dad and I didn’t have to wait long to see him. He greeted us amiably and led us into his office, where we sat down across a large white desk. 

“Having some diarrhea, finding some blood, and feeling fatigued… how long has this been going on?”

“I think the first things I noticed must have been in March or April, but then I could tell something was really off when my stamina decreased.”

“M’kay, and about how many bowel movements are you having per day?”  

“Three or four.”

“Are they painful?”

“Not always, but sometimes they feel like a cramp is passing through.”

“Mhm, any other symptoms you can describe? Bloating, gas, nausea?”

 “Not really, maybe slight nausea after a big meal.”

“Mhm, okay, can you lie down on the bed there and let me have a look at your stomach?”

Sterile paper cricklecrackle as I sat down on the exam table. I lifted my shirt as rubber glove slapped his wrist skin.

“Okay, does this hurt?” Pressure on my stomach, hand of a healer.

“No.”

“Mhm, how about this?” an inch up, slight tickle.

“No.”

Cold metal stethoscope on my chest.  

“Okay, now deep inhale.”

 Huhh

“Exhale.”

hhuh

“Again.”

Huhhhuh, cold metal moved down to my stomach.

“Good, again.”

Huhhuh

“Again.”

Huhhuh

“One more.”

Huhuh, hyperventilation light head.

“Alright, you can sit up.” He threw out his glove and sat back down behind his desk. I got up off the examination table and sat down next to my father.

“Hmm, okay, any relevant medical family history concerning the stomach?”

“Just his grandmother, who had stomach cancer towards the end of her life,” said father.

“I see, are you Jewish?”

Huh? “No.”

“Do you smoke cigarettes?”

“No.”

He entered on the keyboard, saved, then looked up.

“Alright, well, rectal bleeding is something to be concerned about, but I don’t want to speculate, so let’s do a blood test to see your numbers, a stool test to check for infection, and some endoscopic imaging with a colonoscopy for diagnosis. Sound good?”

“Sounds good. We were expecting the colonoscopy,” said dad.

“It’s not a big deal. I won’t have to go very far with the camera, so we won’t even have to put you out. I’ll give you a minor sedative and you won’t feel a thing. Alright?”

“Okay,” I said.  

“The toughest part is the bowel prep, gotta clear yourself out. I’ll write you a prescription for MiraLAX. Schedule a time next week at the front desk. Make sure to drink all of the prescription, or else we might have to reschedule, and then you’d have to start all over.”

He scribbled the script and handed it to my father.

“If you guys have any questions, don’t hesitate to give us a ring. Nice to meet you. I’ll see you in a few days. Good luck with the bowel prep.”  

He shook our hands and showed us the door. Dad and I left the doctor’s office and walked toward the pharmacy.

“I’ve had colonoscopies before, this stuff you have to drink is pretty nasty, but it’ll let us get a diagnosis, and then the doc should be able to fix you right up.”

“Yeah, I can manage a little more discomfort.”

Dad gave the pharmacist the prescription, and they told us to return in fifteen minutes to pick up the order. We went across the street into BookCourt where I read the first couple pages of Jonathan Lethem’s Fortress of Solitude before returning to pick up two one-liter bottles of liquid from the pharmacist, who suggested diluting with Gatorade.

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