Everyone's Gown Opens in the Back

 “Ooh, doors!” I said, excited about the upgrade. Bob had to agree. “Yeah, better than curtains, huh?”

We both had to admit that having an actual door felt like a small but significant victory over the typical thin cotton barrier between me and everyone else here for their own rounds of prodding and poking.

Today it was my turn—I was in for a colonoscopy.

Nobody wants to talk about this test, even though it is common. Often prescribed for people over 45 as a screening for colorectal cancer, it’s still “the procedure that must not be named” because it’s just too embarrassing to talk about.

What’s worse than talking about the test itself is the prep for it. The instructions that came to me from the doctor’s office (physical paper printouts if you can believe that, complete with highlights, notes, and underlines) just told me what to buy (Dulcolax, Miralax, and Gatorade), and when to take what: 3 pm, 6 pm, and 11 pm. What the sheets did not say was what happens in between those times. It’s just left up to the patient to figure it out. We don’t talk about that.

While I was getting ready for the procedure that must not be named, I was struck by how much we humans try to maintain a sense of control over dignity over what we can. And yet we’re all really just a big bundle of bodily functions and foibles. And this test just brought it all into sharp focus.

It seems to me that the internal struggle to “keep it together” is why embarrassment is so inescapable. It’s not just about medical exams—it’s the way we’re wired from an early age. We feel embarrassed when our dignity, competence, or image are (seemingly) compromised. There are theories around it that suggest this response evolved as a way to maintain social bonds. By signaling vulnerability or remorse through blushing or nervous laughter (or in my case, crying, staring at my feet, or running away), people indirectly show they recognize a social blunder, which can actually elicit empathy or forgiveness from others.

The embarrassment around medical procedures like the (whispered) colonoscopy is the same but different. There are just certain things we’re taught are taboo topics and anything to do with “that stuff” is not for polite conversation. Of course, there’s also the issue of humiliating gowns that open (or rather, do not close) in the back, and having people see you in an exposed state that can make even the most unabashed person squirmy.

The thing is, at least for me, knowing the psychology behind all this doesn’t really address the fact that my brain hangs on to the embarrassing moments of my life like my puppy clamping down on the sock he just stole from the hamper. He’s just not going to let it go. And it’s not just the big things like colonoscopies—it also shows up in smaller moments and when you least expect it.

Like the time I went on a ski club trip. This was long before I lost my skiing nerve, and well before the normalization of wearing ski goggles. So it was a while back. I had buddied up with some women in the club and we had been skiing the intermediate runs for a while when we signaled to each other that we needed to take a bio break.

After dealing with the utter hassle that is trying to undo and then redo all the layers of ski gear just to take a leak, I went to the sink to wash my hands. I glanced in the mirror to check my look and wasn’t expecting this: mascara stains all down my face. It literally looked like I had been bawling my eyes out. Never once did it cross my mind that the lovely, gentle snow that had been falling all day would melt off my mascara. But it did.

My first instinct was to blame the women I was skiing with, and I even said something in horror like, “You could have told me!” There was some effort made before they hightailed it out of the ladies room to suggest that they hadn’t noticed it. Yeah, whatever. I spent the next 10 minutes trying to wash the black off my face and hoping no one would ask me, “Are you okay?” I felt like a humiliated teenager, and that feeling was as puffy as my parka.

There were many stories like this with a timeline going back to childhood. Like the time in junior high when I won a local speech contest and was moved up to regional competition. I had my speech pretty well down pat, but standing on the stage with a bright light in my face and my parents (and lots of other parents) sitting in the audience nothing, absolutely nothing, about my speech came to mind. Not a word. I think I croaked out a Woody Allen joke, or maybe I just thought I did. In any case, despite the spotlight in my face I managed to find the stairs leading off the stage. I just wished they had gone all the way down to China.

Of course, every shrink will tell you that through all these experiences there is something called the “spotlight effect” in which we “think” people are paying way more attention to us than they actually are. In this case, though, there was a literal spotlight, and utterly no denying that I had blown it.

Anyway, the morning of my colonoscopy I was comforted by a couple of sheets of frosted glass between me and everyone else. After all, it was a “door” that closed, keeping me in and the world out, except for the steady flow of medical professionals who were getting me ready for the procedure.

While they were all asking me questions and checking things off their lists, I realized that these people had probably seen it all—every uncomfortable scenario—and yet they were calm, steady, and efficient. Not one of them gasped when they saw my weight. Nobody had raised eyebrows about my no-makeup look. There was no snickering among the nurses about my bedhead.

They were not shocked. They were not judging. They were just there to help me get through this, or at the very least, just doing their jobs.

While I have been mulling all this over, I have also been thinking about my reaction to someone else’s embarrassing moments. Some of what the psych people say is really true and that is I’m usually just trying to get through the day myself, so quite often I’m not paying close attention. Which I guess is the point of all this. We’re all just here, doing our thing, in our own bubbles of awkwardness.

We are all in our own bubbles, but we really share the one giant bubble of humanity together. In the Gospel reading for Sunday (aka “prep day” for my colonoscopy), Jesus was asked, “Which is the first of all the commandments?” His answer you probably know: “The first is this: Hear, O Israel! The Lord our God is Lord alone! You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength. The second is this: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. There is no other commandment greater than these.”

While I was tempted to think of this reading as just a lot of pretty words, kind of a scriptural warm hug it’s a challenge to me. What Jesus outlines is at the heart of what it means to live as his disciple. Jesus connected loving God and loving neighbor (each other!). They are inseparable. I can’t claim to love God and not love my neighbor (you! everyone!). I can’t truly love you without first loving God. God at the center of my life is what can make it possible for me to share your joys, your pains, and, yes, your most embarrassing moments.

So maybe we’re all just here shuffling through life in our open-back gowns hoping nobody’s looking. But maybe that’s also where our real strength lies—in loving each other in spite of, or even because of, those vulnerable gaps.