So, you got in a stranger’s car, thinking it was your Uber. Or you hugged your mom at the mall, only it wasn’t your mom. Or the neighbor you’ve been calling Dave for fifteen years tells you his name is Greg. Big deal. Get over it. 

When I tell you my most embarrassing moment, well—let’s just say you’re going to be embarrassed to have suggested that yours deserves a second thought. In fact, my story is so preposterous you will think it is just that—a story. But I promise you every bit of it is true. 

It started with me in a hospital gown—opening in the back, please remove everything including your underwear—sitting in a chair in an examining room at St. Peter’s Hospital. I had shunned the padded exam table, feeling that was for after the doctor made his reassuring introduction.  It wasn’t like I was worried about a bad diagnosis or something. Kind of the opposite, really. My company had purchased a multi-million-dollar life insurance policy for me, and this was my perfunctory health exam.

Hanging out in a too-short hospital gown made me uncomfortable. When I leaned forward, elbows-on-knees to read People magazine, the gown splayed open, exposing my backside to the cold plastic seat. But when I tucked the gown under me, leaned back, and crossed my legs to keep from exposing myself, it felt weirdly seductive.

There was one soft knock on the door. A doctor entered, carrying a small wooden briefcase, which suggested traveling chess set more than medical equipment.  I couldn’t tell if his judgmental look was about the People magazine or my come-hither pose.

He placed his little briefcase on the exam table, opened it, and proceeded to remove and assemble gleaning stainless-steel parts that came together to create what looked like a foot-long Captain Video Ray Gun. He fumbled with the assembly long enough to convince me he had never put together, much less used one of these devices.

“I’m Doctor Sanden and I will be administering your Sigmoidoscopy today,” he finally announced. 

He extended his hand as if offering to shake mine, then detoured his movement to pick up the ray gun instead. He held it out for me to examine, as if that explained everything. 

“Okay, if you could just hop up on the exam table on your hands and knees, we’ll check out your sigmoid and get you out of here in no time,” he promised.  

And I’m thinking, where’s my sigmoid? So much for reassuring introductions.

At this point I had an uneasy feeling about where he planned to put that ray gun. Fortunately, I was still basking in the glow of the insurance policy and figured even this indignity would be worth it.

The scope was at full depth, with the doc peering intently into the eyepiece within inches of my butt when I heard the door to the room click open. I glanced back over my left shoulder to see a young nurse standing in the doorway. 

She took in the scene, locked on my eyes, and screamed, “Oh my God!”, fleeing and leaving the door wide open to the adjoining waiting room. I recognized several people who had been there along with me fifteen minutes earlier.

The guy in the business suit who earlier had caught me watching him surreptitiously pick his nose, gave me a self-satisfied little wave. An older man who had been slumped in his wheelchair had come alive, nudging his wife, and gesturing toward my room.

“Can someone get the door?” I stage-whispered. 

The doctor was too intent on my bowels to hear me, but the dozen or so previously bored people in the waiting room apparently did. Some craned their necks while others rose from their seats for a better view. This was well before people carried cell phones, so they were stuck with Reader’s Digest or Popular Mechanics. And what was going on next door was infinitely more entertaining than “I Am Joe’s Skin” or “How to Build a Helicopter in Your Backyard”.

Part of me wanted to search the faces in the waiting room for anyone who might know me. Instead, I turned my head to the wall, shielding my face—like criminals do when they are arrested in front of the tv cameras.

Now if you’re thinking that’s about as embarrassing as you can get, you would be only half correct. Because three years later I returned to the same room for the same procedure to renew that same life insurance policy.

Unfortunately, my positive vibes from the policy had long since evaporated, mostly because I had discovered that the company had named itself the beneficiary. They explained the policy needed to be structured this way to pay off shareholders’ heirs—”in case the whole plane went down.” 

So even though I knew what was in store this time, I felt much less tolerant of suffering for a dubious cause. The good news was I had a different doctor, who at least knew how to put the gun together, which I took as a good sign. His easy-going manner made me so relaxed, I told him what had happened the last time I had been in that room.

I thought he might laugh, but instead, he bolted the door, and solemnly promised me nothing like that would happen on his watch. 

Shortly into the procedure I heard him softly mutter to himself, “Oh shit.” 

Naturally I thought he was referring to something about me, or more specifically my sigmoid.

But the next thing the doctor said was, “damn light bulb burned out.”

My mood yo-yoed from the despair of wondering how long I had to live, to the joy of realizing it wasn’t me he was talking about, it was the ray gun!  But my joy was equally short-lived.

For some reason I still cannot understand, the doctor left the Captain Video Ray Gun in place, and instructed, “Don’t move. I’ve got to find a new bulb.” 

With that, he unbolted the door and left the room, leaving the door wide open to the packed waiting room outside.