Commentary: A lawyer walks into a hospital . . .

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it was, just staring at me — an otherwise unremarkable brown bottle that I picked up from my local pharmacy earlier that day. I glared at it with a disdainful look, knowing too well the evils that lay dormant within the small glass enclosure. For weeks I had known this day was coming, but that didn’t make the moment easier. It was, after all, the day before my colonoscopy. In the words of my constitutional law professor the night before our class’s final exam, “the hour was nigh”. It was time to drink my magnesium citrate laxative or, as I refer to it, The Devil’s Purge.

A few years ago, I was diagnosed with a relatively mild case of Crohn’s disease, a chronic form of inflammatory bowel disease. I generally have been able to control the disease with prescription drugs, but to my never-ending contempt, one thing I haven’t been able to avoid are frequent colonoscopies and endoscopies to make sure the affliction has not progressed. I have a closer relationship with my gastroenterologist than my dentist. Which reminds me: I should probably get that chipped tooth fixed.

But first, back to the matter at hand. My procedure was scheduled for a Tuesday afternoon, which meant I had to begin The Devil’s Purge Monday night. I did my best to clear my work calendar that afternoon, but it’s nearly impossible these days to completely clear the decks, so I sent a quiet prayer into the cosmos that no client emergencies would arise. I took a deep breath, opened the bottle and started chugging. “That wasn’t too bad,” I thought to myself. Maybe it was a new and improved formula. Still, I thought “Cherry and Sand Smash” or “Watermelon Vomit” might be a good name for it.

Seconds after gulping down the final drop, my phone rang. It was an automated message from my doctor’s office reminding me of my appointment on Wednesday, rather than Tuesday, which was the day I had marked in my calendar for the procedure. “My God,” I whispered under my breath in a horrified tone. My mind started racing. Did I just consume 12 ounces of The Devil’s Purge a full day too early? Had I painstakingly moved my office desk to the bathroom for no reason? Would I have to do this again tomorrow? I’m sure you can imagine my emotional distress, which quickly was turning into gastrointestinal distress as my stomach started audibly bubbling and brewing.

I immediately called the hospital, and to my great relief, the message had been sent in error. I sighed. I also shot off a text to a friend of mine, Jimmy, who happens to represent this particular hospital system: “You need to tell X to fix their automated messaging system. I sense a lawsuit in their future if they don’t. And I may be the plaintiff . . .”

After firing off my threat of litigation, I used the last few minutes of relative quiet to read through the prep materials. It was all pretty rote to me at this point — no solid foods starting two nights before the procedure, no alcohol or certain artificial colors — but one post-procedure instruction stood out in particular: “Do not sign legal documents.” This raised a couple of questions in my mind. First, knowing what The Devil’s Purge does to one’s intestinal tract, I wouldn’t feel comfortable signing an enforceable agreement the night before the procedure, either. Second, it didn’t say anything about “drafting” legal documents. For the benefit of my clients, though, I planned to take the night off. I shot another text to Jimmy: “Pretty sloppy drafting in the prep instructions. Perhaps that’s why you got a ‘C’ in Professor Tidwell’s drafting class.”

The next six hours went exactly as you would expect — poorly. I’ll save you the details. The next day, I arrived at the hospital about 30 minutes before my scheduled procedure. As I walked through the sliding glass doors, I was taken aback by the scene inside. The hospital was teeming with doctors, nurses, receptionists and patients, all wearing masks but otherwise going about their business. I don’t know what I expected to see, but I was amazed that the hospital, at least to me, seemed unaffected by the pandemic raging on outside its doors.

As someone who hasn’t been to the office since March 12 and rarely even goes to the grocery store out of fear for myself and my wife, I was in awe at the scene. Prior to walking through those doors, I had an abstract notion of the sacrifices being made by our health care workers. Seeing a busy hospital lobby firsthand, however, made it real. It also offered some perspective on my own circumstances. The biggest “sacrifice” I’ve had to make professionally these past few months is figuring out how to unmute my audio on Zoom. These health care workers have continued working under incredibly demanding circumstances during the height of a once-in-a-lifetime global pandemic. That thought alone put me at ease that I was in great care.

My procedure went off without a hitch. I was loopy for a few hours, and Laura had to stop me from dialing up opposing counsel, but I was back to normal by the morning. The doctor scheduled a Telehealth video appointment with me the next morning — another way in which health care providers have adapted to these unprecedented times. I ended the call by thanking him for his service. I also asked him if he could talk to someone about those automated messages: “You’re going to give someone a heart attack!” He told me, “Heart issues aren’t my problem.” I texted Jimmy again.