Why I’ve been wondering what Daniel Day-Lewis is up to and can’t stop listening to The Cars

I blame, and thank, the drugs

This is not my gastroenterologist, nor is it Daniel Day-Lewis. Photo by José Pablo Domínguez on Unsplash

On a warm April day in Lexington, I slowly carried my slice of Goodfellas pizza — a pizza joint known for its huge slices and breadsticks — outside in Lexington’s Distillery District and sat under an umbrella on a patio overlooking a creek. A slight breeze rustled the trees. The running water below was another reminder that the warm weather was likely here to stay after a snowy, frigid winter. I looked down and watched a few ducks glide against the current and up and over a tiny waterfall.

I wanted to stay here for the rest of my day off and let my nature intoxication deepen while enjoying the 70s and 80s classic rock play at a satisfyingly medium volume.

I decided to send a Teams message to my coworkers, wishing that we could all have lunch together.

“This view is always enjoyable but much more so propofol. Happy post colonoscopy to me.”

Naturally, my coworkers celebrated this update with laughing face and party hat emojis.

“Distillery district?” one of them asked.

“Yes. It’s amazing out. And I just heard the Cars. They are playing good post punk new wave 80s.”

I didn’t know that propofol would not only revitalize my love of The Cars, but that it would also inspire me to watch more of Daniel Day-Lewis’ work, among other obscure films, and bring out my uncensored honesty with a plethora of medical staff and my costars in the Great Gatsby.

The morning of my third colonoscopy started like your average post-prep day — I was exhausted, dehydrated from the prep and walking from my front steps to the car took the same effort as running uphill in sand.

(BTW, if you have a parent who has had colon cancer, tell your doctor. Don’t wait until the recommended screening age. I had my first colonoscopy at 34 — my doctor removed precancerous polyps.)

In true form, the car ride exacerbated my anxiety. I felt like a panicky cat on the way to the vet, as we neared the outpatient facility, I did not want to get out of the car. While biding my time in the packed waiting room, my heart raced as I thought of multiple needles being inserted into me and the possibility of death.

But I felt a little better when I was called back to check in and saw the sticker on the medical assistant’s window.

“I pray thee be patient for I hail from the 1900s.” -sticker

“I’m from the 1900s too,” I told Tanya.

Tanya gave Kellen detailed instructions about his role in the day. I liked how seriously she took this procedure and was grateful I didn’t have to talk anymore.

I took a seat in the packed waiting room confused by a huge family texting, laughing and greeting each other like gathering for the first time in years at a family reunion. I could hear the New York accents. All the men had box-died black hair with a faint red tint.

“OK, I’m ready to go under,” I thought. At least it would be quiet.

As I walked back to pre-op, a nurse asked me to pee in a cup.

“I’m not sure there’s anything left,” I said.

“That’s ok. I know you’ll try your best, hon,” she said.

She walked me back to my very own hospital bed and introduced me to another nurse. I changed into my gown and put on what I didn’t know were grippy socks backwards.

I thought I’d be able to wear my favorite pair of KMUW public radio socks — they have a fun pattern and tiny microphones on them, but everyone must wear the provided socks that help prevent you from slipping on the hospital tile when you get out of bed.

I have a track record of intense vasovagal reaction to needles. It’s not the pain, it’s the idea of anything under my skin being disturbed. I don’t like the idea of blood leaving my body or an instrument penetrating my veins — especially when the needle is submerged for an extended period of time to administer anesthesia.

I asked the nurse for an alcohol wipe, unwrapped it and whiffed it — a great trick to keep me from passing out or vomiting — as she stuck the needle in my arm, and I uncontrollably cried, more nurses and the doctor came in.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Smith (not his real name), how are you today — aside from the diarrhea, being up all night and dehydration?”

“Terrible,” I said, ignoring his attempt to cheer me up knowing I would be going under in only a few minutes. It’s hard not to think about death when you have to sign a consent form acknowledging the dangers of undergoing anesthesia.

As nurses wheeled me down the hall, I felt like I was already succumbing to some nightmare. The operating room seemed too big and shiny for the sole purpose of colonoscopies, and at any minute, I felt like I’d be the victim in a scene from a body horror film.

In reality, it was an average operating room.

As the nurses gathered around me to check my IV line and cover me with blankets, one told me her mother’s name was Corinne. Then they gently encouraged me to roll on my side, so my butt would be exposed.

I know that doctors and nurses have seen thousands of naked bodies and aren’t fazed by the idea of semi-public nudity that cripples most of us, even in our dreams, but maybe some stickers saying as much at the check-in counter would help.

“We’re here to help, and we don’t care what you look like naked.” -Proposed doctor’s office sticker for adults

The last thing I remember is hearing some classic rock playing as Dr. Smith walked behind me.

I slept soundly for about 28 minutes. As I opened my eyes in another room, I thought it was too soon and shut them again. A few minutes later, I heard a new nurse and Kellen talk about me as I was waking up.

Then, Dr. Smith, his face obscured without my glasses and made hazier by the drugs, mumbled something about cutting out a polyp.

“I’m not worried about it. It was small,” said and headed back out of the curtain.

“Wait,” I said. “Do I need to stop drinking alcohol and eating meat?”

“No, you aren’t an excessive meat eater or heavy drinker. I’m not worried about it,” he said again trying to leave.

“Wait, but why does this happen? I’m very active and used to be a vegetarian,” I groggily repeated.

He said something about “genes, your parents’ health history,” and reiterated “I’m not worried” to me, his patient, still high on anesthesia.

“Why does Dr. Smith look so much like Daniel Day-Lewis,” I mumbled to the nurse as I woke up a little more.

“I’m not sure!” she said. “But he kinda does.” She laughed.

“Are you sure he’s not a recent medical school graduate? A difficult venture he decided to take on to really get ready for his next role?” I asked. “Are you sure he isn’t Daniel Day-Lewis?”

“No, he’s been with us for a while,” the nurse said.

“I love your accent,” I continued with no objective whatsoever as I found myself enjoying every minute of what I thought were some of the most important conversations I’d ever had. “Are you from eastern Kentucky?” I asked. “It’s my favorite accent.”

“Almost,” she said. “I’m from Mount Sterling.”

“Close enough,” I said.

Eventually, she told me she was thinking about getting a new cat because her 20-year-old cat had recently died.

“Isn’t it the fucking worst,” I said rather loudly. I knew the sincerity in my voice conveyed my understanding of pet loss.

She laughed, telling me she was ready for a new companion.

“I’m so hungry,” I blurted out, remembering the anesthesiologist told me I could eat whatever I want.

As my new best friend from Mount Sterling rolled my wheelchair down the hall and to the parking lot, I thanked her for listening to me and cried a little, telling her how kind she and the medical staff were.

Looking up at the clear spring sky, I knew I wanted to sit outside and told Kellen to drive to the Distillery District. I started dreaming about how close I was to a massive slice of pizza and a breadstick that probably stretched to the length of a yardstick.

I wobbled out to a patio that sat along a creek and ate a few bites of my margherita slice and jabbered on about how much I loved my coworkers, rehearsing for The Great Gatsby and how much I loved Kentucky. Then I heard the Cars.

“They are so fucking awesome. I love this sound,” I said. On the way home, I pulled up their greatest hits and dozed off.

The Cars remind me of this huge, brand-new stereo my stepdad bought in the early 90s. Its speakers were almost as tall as I was at 8 years old. It played CDs, had a dual tape deck that could record songs from the radio or from a CD, so you could listen to the new CD in the car. Our cars didn’t have CD players.

I slept on and off for the rest of the day, watched Shiva Baby, and hazily flipped through my Great Gatsby script.

The next day, I realized how puffy my face looked from all the water weight and went to meet my Great Gatsby costars to shoot some silent film footage. I still felt a little off, forgetting that anesthesia can affect some people for up to 24 hours.

Standing on the front porch of a historic house in Paris, KY, Gatsby and I had to stare at each other for a really long time to capture a silent film scene of the first time their characters met. It lasted so long, eventually, we both started laughing.

Then I said, “Sorry, I’m a little out of it, I had a colonoscopy yesterday, and I think the propofol is making me a little high still.”

At this point in rehearsals, I knew Randy (Gatsby) wouldn’t judge me, so didn’t think twice about the amount of information I’d just shared. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t help make the filming less funny.

I also apologized to the director and crew, explaining that I was a little slow because of my colonoscopy the previous day.

Watch the Great Gatsby trailer.

After filming, I found a cozy spot on the couch and was thankful my nausea and achy stomach didn’t start until I got home. I texted another co-star, who told me to take it easy and that she always felt funny for a day after anesthesia.

Nesting on the couch, I remembered my love of lesser-known Jake Gyllenhaal movies. He’s one of my favorite actors. Whether he’s watering a single plant as a sociopathic night-crawling cameraman or figuring out how to survive after he’s been captured by a murderous grandmother, there’s something about the obscure and non-box office scripts he takes on. I love his weird characters and their sometimes inexplicable quirks.

Three months later, and I still can’t stop listening to The Cars. I subscribed to Tidal, and keep going through their catalog of albums, playlists and somewhat creepy music videos.

I watched The Age of Innocence with Daniel Day-Lewis (he’s super dreamy in it) and Michelle Pfeiffer. I think another Jake Gyllenhaal movie I’ve never heard of is in order, too.

I’m still curious about how Daniel Day-Lewis chooses and then prepares for his roles — personally, I think he’d make an excellent Kentucky-based anesthesiologist.

It’s funny how these propofol inspirations have stuck with me this time around. My previous two colonoscopies were mostly unmemorable. I remember lying in bed and coloring after my 2020 colonoscopy – thankful to have received a good report and not to have contracted COVID. I wonder what film, art or writing ideas will come of my next colonoscopy.

Five years from now, I look forward to oversharing my next propofol experience with my coworkers and my next cast, whatever the production may be.

Have you ever experienced inspiration from anesthesia? If so, tell me about it. If not, what kind of things do you hope will be heightened in a future anesthesia-induced state?