In the end…all was well, but in the beginning, or more accurately, the time leading up to the beginning, had moments of trepidation. Many moons ago, the Stoic philosopher Seneca wrote, “We suffer more often in imagination than in reality.” It often seems that no matter the number of moons that pass over, illuminating all that changes in civilization, much stays the same amongst the thoughts and behaviors of humankind.

Like “mooning” for instance. Not the “wandering idly” or “romantically pining” type of mooning, but the type that the Oxford English Dictionary describes as, “exposing one’s buttocks to someone in order to insult or amuse them.”

In researching the act, it seems that throughout recorded history, and presumably for as long as humans have been in possession of a buttocks, mooning has been a form of expression. Google told me, “In January 2006, a Maryland state circuit court determined that mooning is a form of artistic expression protected by the First Amendment as a form of speech.”

Public Service Announcement: In 2021, the U.S. Preventive Service Task Force and the American Cancer Society issued a new recommendation that colorectal cancer screening begin at age 45 rather than 50.

I did not arrive at the Endoscopy Center with the intent to “insult” or “amuse” the medical professionals that have dedicated their lives to exploring the murky depths of humankind. I arrived, because at 50, I’m a few moons behind the recommended date of exploration. I arrived now, because in the past, I allowed trepidation and consternation to kick the can down the road.

In the end, Seneca was right. So it goes.

When I was 10-years old I was lying on the floor within arm’s length of the knobs on our 5,000lb television set. I was lying within arm’s length, because in 1982, 10-year old kids were the standard issue remote control for the televisions in most American households. The standard remote to turn the knob between all three channels, and the technician charged with adjusting the rabbit ears or providing the occasional whack to the behemoth when the screen started misbehaving.

M.A.S.H. was on, so knowing channel changing wouldn’t be necessary for a bit, I was spending my break lying on my back tossing a lead fishing weight into the air above me. Why? That’s a dumb question to ask a 10-year-old. They never know why.

It was one of those tear drop shaped weights, roughly the size of a Milk Dud. Side note, if you want to shut a 10-year-old up for a bit, a box of Milk Duds will do the trick.

Anyway…I’m lying on my back, casually tossing the fishing weight up towards the popcorn ceiling, Dad, after a long day in the oilfield, is relaxing on the couch three feet away, smoking a Vantage Menthol, Hawkeye and Charles Emerson Winchester III are exchanging zingers while operating on Korean War casualties, and I miss handle the lead fishing weight on its return flight.

It bounces of my hand and into my gapping 10-year-old mouth, bypassing the lips, teeth, tongue, and uvula, it comes to rest cozily in back of my throat. In a panic, I thrash around a bit on the shag carpet trying to dislodge the fishing weight that is blocking my airway and ability to speak. Dad, used to odd behavior from his son, pays no mind to the struggle for life that is occurring to the laugh track emanating from the television.

The lead fishing weight wouldn’t come up, so I went with option two, and it went down. From deaths doorstep I went out to the kitchen and told Mom what had happened. The perplexed and bewildered look I had grown accustomed to seeing whenever I tried to explain my behavior took its usual place on her face, and she either asked me “why” or muttered “why” to herself in regards to the fix she’d gotten into with this whole motherhood gig. Either way, I shrugged the stupid shrug of a 10-year-old.

As the sedation dissipated, and the grogginess subsided, my kindly gastroenterologist stopped by to tell me of his journey to my moon and beyond. When I inquired, he quite confidently assured me that he had not found my long-lost fishing tackle, or anything else of interest. In the end…all was well.