Never Trust a Guy with Gloves

Generally I make it a rule not to go to the doctor. I’m not bragging or implying that I am healthy, I just don’t like to go. There are always sick people there and I am sure some of that ick will get stuck on me. So a few years ago when I told my wife I was going to see my doc she was a little alarmed and a lot sarcastic. 
“Oh my goodness, did you lose an appendage or are you finally having that sixth toe looked at?” she teased.
“Actually, I am finally going to have the stomach issues checked out, it has been going on for too long.” I shot back. I won’t describe the issues I was having but needless to say they were worrisome enough for me to veto my no doctor rule. 
So I went to my primary doctor. The nurse called my name and we headed back to the exam room. We went through all the normal stuff, then the doctor came in and we discussed the symptoms I was having. He pushed on my stomach and said, “I think you need to see a G.I. Doc.”  
“But you’re my doctor”, I pleaded. If I had my way he would be my dentist too, I really didn’t want someone new poking around on me, not to mention it took me three months to get up the nerve to make this appointment. But he insisted and warned to do it sooner than later. 
So I scheduled the appointment. It was early April and since I was being such a grown up about going to the doctor I decided to treat myself to a morning of golf. Such a pleasant day, at least it started out that way.   
The G.I. Nurse ran me through the same questions. They must all share a script. As I waited for the doctor I took in my surroundings. There were posters on the walls showing the different parts of the digestive track and a Preparation H sponsored calendar with kittens, although I’m not sure how the two are related. I noticed that unlike most doctor’s offices the counter was empty except for a box of rubber gloves. It did make sense to me though, he probably wouldn’t be checking my ears, nose and throat for the issues I had been having so he didn’t need the instruments that normally reside there. 
The doctor introduced himself and shook my hand. He had a kind face that put me at ease and big strong hands. He listened intently as I described what had been going on. He asked me to lay down so he could examine my abdomen. A few questions later he said, “OK, you can sit up.” That was painless, I thought. 
“I think we should schedule a colonoscopy just to be safe,” he said as he turned towards the counter, “Don’t worry, we’re almost done, if you could just drop your pants and lie on your side we can wrap things up.”
Do what?! We just met! You shook my hand with that hand! In hindsight I should have known this was his end of the business but I just wasn’t prepared. I wanted to say, ‘forget everything I said, I’m fine.’ But in a flash he was done. “OK, that’s it.” he said sounding as relieved as I was. As I stood up we exchanged an awkward glance and then said our good-byes. 
A couple weeks passed and it was time for my scope. If you have never had the pleasure of getting a colonoscopy I must say it wasn’t that bad. They sedate you, so it was actually a pretty nice nap, nothing like the prison movie nightmare I was expecting. The night before, however, is a completely different story. When you travel to Mexico they always say don’t drink the water. I am pretty sure the Doctor prescribed a gallon of that water for me to consume the night before the procedure to make sure I was all cleaned up for my photo shoot. Basically it was the most un-fun seven hours of my life, the toilet lid still has the depressions my finger tips left on it. They didn’t find anything out of the ordinary but I could have told them that, everything had come out the night before. From there I got some medicine and things got better. 
This all came to mind recently because I had an appointment with my primary doctor. As I was waiting for him to come in I glanced at the counter. It’s cluttered surface was so comforting. Tung depressors, tissues, long stemmed swabs and not a rubber glove in sight.