This horror story had it all.

The gradual buildup. A labyrinthine, sterile building. The vague sense of vulnerability that accompanies stripping naked. Needles. Ingesting an unfamiliar substance that leads to a different state of being. Lack of control that comes with the loss of consciousness. Medical devices. Fear of the unknown. Awareness of one’s own mortality. Having a probe stuck up your butt.

David Cronenberg’s latest film?

No. My first colonoscopy.

I was overdue, according to preventative medical guidelines, years overdue. It is easy to put off unpleasant things. But when I went to the doctor for a potential sinus infection, and the physician assistant noted my records showed an absence of middle-age screenings, I knew it was time. He even made it sound a little cool. “Time for your first colo,” he said.

Friends described the experience as the best nap I would ever have. That might be true, but then I got the preparation instructions.

Starting seven days out from the procedure: A low fiber diet, akin to the bland two-dimensional choices of a fussy child, devoid of color, shape and personality. Eating as self-erasure.

Then one day out, things get real. A clear, all liquid diet, then two bouts of a laxative of sodium sulfate, potassium sulfate and magnesium sulfate. Several hours on the can with diarrhea.

I wasn’t intimidated. After all, I’ve consumed a lot of Malört.

But it’s knowing that something else awaits, and that something is itself unknown: a procedure that leads to a clean bill of health, or a mixed report filled with hemorrhoids. Maybe a life-threatening diagnosis.

As in a lot of horror stories, there are helpers along the way, people who aid and comfort the main character who is in a scary and unpleasant situation.

“Do you have an advance directive or will?”

By the time the fourth person asked that, death was on my mind.

The professionalism of the medical staff also did not negate the pain of them not being able to find a vein for the IV needle.

I broke out in a sweat, felt faint, got a dry mouth.

A nurse described as good at jabbing was called over.

“You are sweating,” someone said.

They finally got the needle in, taping it to my left wrist. Both arms sported a patchwork of bandages and gauze.

I was light-headed when they wheeled me to the surgery room, trying not to panic.

Everything about this leads to bad thoughts. It’s about cancer. It’s about detecting something that can kill you. And, even if it’s OK and you get a reprieve, there is the feeling that, maybe not now, or even for a few years, but the place you die is going to be a lot like the place you’re in now, being wheeled around on a bed through endless hallways, harsh sounds and harsh light everywhere.

In surgery everyone was nice. This is old hat for them. They do it all the time. They see a lot of vulnerable people with their butts in the air, waiting for a probe to go in.

That did not make it any more familiar to me, although I was comforted they all seemed to know what they were doing.

Like any likable horror story protagonist, I thought I would crack wise in the face of the unknown. As the IV drip started and I shifted to my left side to expose my butt through the surgical gown, I started recalling for the room’s benefit a surgery years ago when doctors removed a foreign object in my foot — friends will recall The Infamous Flip Flop Incident — before darkness descended.

The next thing I knew I was in recovery, a nurse asking how I felt and if I wanted juice and a graham cracker.

I had made it, avoiding one of the rare but not unthinkable things that can go wrong, like a perforated anus or some such calamity that can leave one with a colostomy bag for six weeks.

As I came around, and my lovely spouse came into recovery, I got the results.

One 3mm polyp removed, some things to note like small areas of diverticular pockets, probably genetic, but overall a healthy colon.

One bland fact stood out on the written report: It took 8 minutes, 16 seconds for “withdrawal” of the scope from my butt. Very clinical language. That’s the kind of thing I was not conscious for, thankfully. It’s still unnerving.

Full results would not be available for a week or so, but I was relieved.

The doctor came to see me off. He was smiling. He relayed much of the same information on the report. Told me to eat a high-fiber diet.

I had made it through the experience, one I had been dreading. Nothing went wrong with the anesthesia, or the invasive procedure, and there were no red flags.

Then, like all good horror stories, the doctor announced the sequel.

“See you in 7-to-10 years.”

Photograph by Nicholas Karlin, drawing by Daniel Knox

This piece is in Recommend If You Like The Spooky Issue Fall 2026. You can find physical copies in bars, cafes and stores in Chicago and Washington, D.C. The newspaper is available for purchase here. 

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