Merry Colonoscopy and a Crappy New Year

Christmas morning dawned with all the pomp and splendor one might expect from a holiday dedicated to peace, joy, and the annual reminder that wrapping paper cannot be recycled. The children—who exist only in the stories of others, for our home is devoid of such noise-makers—were replaced by my wife, Mary, and me, gleefully tearing open the carefully wrapped boxes we’d disguised from one another just days before.

Following this, we indulged in breakfast, one so hearty it bordered on a personal challenge to our circulatory systems.

All was well in the world until the sharp cry of memory gone awry interrupted our post-meal torpor. “The mail!” exclaimed Mary, with the fervor of one suddenly realizing she had forgotten to defuse a bomb. In the haze of holiday cheer—or my forgetfulness, depending on who tells the tale—I had neglected my solemn duty to retrieve the post the night prior.

Mary, ever the action-oriented half of this duo, donned her coat with a martyr’s air and ventured into the frigid outdoors. Our mailbox, cursed by the architect of our subdivision, resides across the street, a location that practically screams “rain-soaked bills” and “misdelivered packages.” As I watched her from the window, braving the elements for what was likely a batch of coupons and credit card offers, I marveled at her commitment to holding me accountable for this oversight.

Moments later, she returned, cheeks rosy and nose aglow, as if she were the spirit of Christmas herself. She held a large, nondescript plastic bag, like one from Amazon or Temu.

“Something for you,” she said, handing it over with the enthusiasm of a woman presenting a subpoena.

Now, I must explain–I am not the recipient of frequent mail. Letters addressed to me are typically of the grim, obligatory variety, demanding payment or apologizing for some delay. Packages are rarer still, and their arrival is cause for no small amount of curiosity.

So when I saw the sizable parcel, my heart fairly leaped. What could it be? A surprise gift? A belated expression of goodwill from an old acquaintance?

Mary, however, was quick to extinguish any flickering flames of hope. “It’s from the V.A.,” she announced with a certainty that only comes from years of knowing precisely how to crush this man’s spirit. She paused for effect, then added, with the kind of sly smile that should come with a warning label, “Probably your colonoscopy cleansing kit. So Merry-fucking-Christmas to you.”

There are moments in life when time slows down, and you must confront the sheer absurdity of your existence. Here was one of them. I stared at the bag in my hands, the weight of its likely contents pressing down on my soul as much as my palms. What was there to say? Nothing could have captured the poetry of that moment better than Mary’s parting words, which echoed in the room like a grim holiday carol.

And, as you sit by your fireside this Christmas, surrounded by loved ones and the pleasant chaos of the season, take a moment to remember that joy comes in many forms. Sometimes, it is in shiny paper with a bow.

Other times, it arrives in a government-issued bag, accompanied by the cold, unflinching truth of mortality.