Anniversary Vs. Colonoscopy

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It’s my wedding anniversary next week.

Empty nesters that we’ve become, we have a golden opportunity here. But I don’t think we remember what it’s like to celebrate these milestones, if we ever knew. There were the times of mommying where I needed to clean my house for several hours, make food for the children, and then run out to McDonald’s to buy dinner and refreshment for the babysitter in order to leave. With all that done, I was more ready for a nap than a night out.

My mother-in-law sweetly offered to send us out for dinner at the restaurant of our choice near home. It was a nice thought. We considered going away, just us, but happily settled on a weekend trip to Chicago before our anniversary to see the kids—always a worthy expedition.

Somewhere around two years into this marriage, we came to an agreement not to go overboard. It’s mostly a relief for me who feels like I’ll try too hard and miss the mark entirely—a thing I’ve been known to do. I don’t appreciate a grand gesture if it’s in front of witnesses, preferring to tell my version of the story later on. When we married, he made me promise never to surprise, or have people sing to him. And I’ve stayed true to it. In public spaces, anyway. 

So when they called me while I was driving to schedule my routine colonoscopy, I chose that day. Honestly, I thought it would be easier to remember the date before I got a chance to write it down. 

I can see the horrified look on your face, it’s been on everyone’s when they ask what we’re doing for our silver anniversary. We aren’t that type of couple, I tell them.

“Really, do I have to take the day off?” he asked me. 

I nodded. “Anesthesia.”

“Ok, can you eat dinner? I mean it is twenty-five years.”

Maybe chaperoning me under the scope is a lot to ask on our anniversary. He’s been putting up with me for longer than that. But I am over fifty.

My anxiety was ramping up. Of course it was a mistake, I thought as I ushered myself, grim reaper style from a deep sleep with the dual worries of disappointing him and the prep. I was going to be in NY the day before, I told myself like a whiny baby. I love it here in Whoville, but I prefer to eat my native tongue, which no one makes anymore, but I spent a childhood biting into it with mustard on rye bread every weekend at my grandfather’s house—deli sliced and scrumptious.

The narrative I’ve gone with mostly has me overcoming minor affronts by perfecting a marathon length tolerance without resentment. I meant to write this story as a measure of how our love doesn’t need romance, how the everyday sweet gestures have forestalled my desire for expensive jewelry or some golf clubs the kids will have to give away, “as new” when we die.

Instead, my belief system was punctured. Innocently, my son asked me what I was writing about. As I spoke, warming up to the subject about how we prefer not to focus on holidays, milestones and gifts, a realization began to build. It is me who isn’t romantic. His steady, thoughtful, devoted hand has been in so many of the good parts of our life—planning to execution. A quiet cheerleader who loves me. What is that if not romantic?

Last night, when I discovered the puppy poop smell of my dream was real by stepping in it, my stalwart companion woke up without a complaint, got the Bissell out and made the stain disappear while I took a shower. What is that if not love? He could have just rolled over like the dogs did, or gone to sleep in the empty beds sprinkled around the house. Even now, he gets up and solves the problem, no matter how shitty. 

For every anniversary we had when the kids were young, he made up a printed and bound photo book of our adventures that year—each captioned, labeled and blisteringly funny in and out of his accent. Once, he had a table my father bought in Italy restored from water damage as a surprise, making up for the fact that he left it in the garage too long, which I overlooked nicely in my bid to win the tolerance medal. That he knew I would need that still takes my breath away. This year on my birthday he commissioned a watercolor depicting the people and animals we’ve loved and lost watching over us in our new backyard. It is the deepest, most thoughtful thing anyone has done.

How could I have saddled him with my inadequacies? I really gave him a bum rap. I offered my own clunky, misguided attempts at consideration and gift giving as evidence that he wasn’t good at it, so I could stop trying. This is why revisiting these beliefs I’ve held has been so powerful. And humbling.

The transformed me doesn’t dive into the self loathing quicksand, and instead tries desperately to edit without judgment going forward. Time to regroup. In the epic of myself I interpreted long ago and didn’t have occasion to revisit until I wrote this, I deflected my part and lost sight of the countless thoughtful gestures he makes all the time. 

Instead of talking myself out of a celebration for once, I decided to change the date of the colonoscopy. While I waited for the ferry to take me to work, I tried to locate the number of the specific location, but Google had me pinned to Connecticut no matter how hard I tried to go back to Massachusetts on my phone. 

His love language is food, I know, and all he ever wants is a meal that includes potatoes. I scrolled and swiped and screamed at my phone. Finally, I found an 800 number but all my good intentions couldn’t get me through the gauntlet of voice recognition that never speaks Brooklyn. I gave up as the ferry person waved me onto the boat, half convinced it was a sign from the Universe of stage four cancer and not to miss the appointment for a filet mignon and a piece of tres leches.

Maybe you can eat after? If canceling wasn’t an option, I’d make it special despite the prep and anesthesia. Because wouldn’t he feel bad if I did have colon cancer? 

On my way home, my phone rang. It was the gastroenterologist’s office. Was I going to cancel or let it go to a reminder on voicemail? A quarter of a century has to be worth dinner. I picked it up.

“Hi,” a friendly voice said. “I know this is a big ask, but we need to get a few people in more urgently…”

“Say no more,” I told her. “Let’s reschedule. It’s my anniversary.”

There was dead silence on the other end. “Oh,” she said finally. “That’s an interesting choice.”

“Can you help me?” I asked, sounding more desperate than I wanted.

“I can reschedule. We appreciate your flexibility.”

Great, I thought, the Universe changed its mind. Now I have to figure out what to do. Any ideas?