But today, I’m bummed that I don’t live near campus. They’re having a special event in the gym, and I would SO like to be there.

It’s Giant Inflatable Colon day.

“Oh my gosh,” I told my husband and daughter. “We are totally missing out on seeing the Giant Inflatable Colon. It’s a health project for the university. I wonder if it’s big enough to walk through?”

My daughter gagged.

“It would be so interesting!” I assured her. “When I had my colonoscopy last fall, the doctor had this camera going, so I could watch the walls of the colon go by as she scoped it – “ I stopped in mid-sentences since my daughter’s eyes were rolling back in her head. “What?” I asked. “Too much information?”

“Where is this, again?” my husband asked.

“In the gym at the university,” I told him. I read more of the email announcement I had received from the campus. “And listen to this: There are FREE Colorectal Cancer Risk Assessments for anyone who’s interested.”

“They’re scoping people at the gym?” my husband asked.  “Isn’t that a bit personal?”

“No,” I guessed. “It’s probably some sort of survey you fill out. I really doubt they’ve got people climbing on a table behind a makeshift curtain in the school gym. What if the project organizers forgot to notify the gym classes, and a bunch of students in shorts and jerseys showed up to play basketball just when someone was about ready for the procedure? Hello?”

“Yeah, it’s probably a questionnaire assessment,” my daughter agreed.

“But get this,” I continued reading from the announcement. “Activities for kids: Name the colon contest.”

“Name the colon?” my husband said. “Colons already have a name: colons.”

“No, no! The giant inflatable one,” I said. “The big one in the gym.”

“Cathy Colon?” my daughter suggested. “Cornelius Colon?”

“My Big Fat Colon?” my husband added.

“My First Wife?” I chimed in.

“Look at this!” my daughter said, pointing to the email on my computer screen. “Not only are they offering a free risk assessment, but if you take the assessment, and you’re at risk, they’ll give you a free colon screening!”

I read the announcement again. Sure enough, that’s what it said at the bottom of the page. “I’ll be darned.”

“Right there?” my husband asked, “in the gym?”

“Maybe you get a little sticker to wear, like after you vote on election day,” I said. “You know, the one that says ‘I voted.’ It would say something else of course.”

“’I’ve Been Probed’?” my husband suggested.

I imagined walking around in a gym with a bunch of people wearing little round stickers with the words “I’ve Been Probed” on them.

“Eew. Eew. Eew.”

“I bet it’s another questionnaire,” my daughter said.

I hope so, because I know I would have a hard time teaching a classroom of people wearing “I’ve Been Probed” stickers on their shirts.

Talk about too much information.

Help me remember, when I feel it’s a chore,

the time will come when I’ll hold her no more

asleep on my chest (the crib refused,

the blanket, the pacifier, gone unused).

What better place is there to lay her head

than against my heart, my arms her bed?

For infants grow up and leave us behind

with only memories left to remind

us of midnight walking and predawn rocking,

of soft, helpless babies unable to sleep.

So, Lord, make me patient and keep me awake

while I cradle this child, and don’t let me take

for granted the moments I spend in the night

with this baby — Your gift, my joy, my delight.

c. 1998 by Jan Dunlap

There are those who doubt us, who believe the mission is impossible, but it can be done. I am confident of success. The hard work of the last five months has not been in vain. Failure is not an option.

I gear up for a final practice run to make sure the plan works perfectly and that there are no surprises.

The snow has begun to fall.

I slip the electronic transmitter into a secure pocket of my ultralight thermal jacket. I pull on the black gloves and the knit cap. I lace up the all-weather boots that I’ve been training in since October.  I remember the first time I put them on, thinking I’d never be able to go any distance in the heavy boots, let alone tread lightly, but now they are like a second skin to me. I can move like a ghost in the woods. I realize that preparing for this mission has changed me in more ways than I could ever have imagined.

My focus has sharpened.

My determination has steeled.

My resolution is an iron vise.

I recheck the large black plastic bags that have been tightly rolled and stashed in a readily accessible exterior pocket. My fingers run over them, searching for any possible rips that will compromise the mission and the subsequent cleanup. I will leave no trace that we have come and gone. No one will be able to track us.

I silently slip out into the night, and as soon as the biting wind hits my exposed face, I realize I am missing one last piece of gear to make this mission a total success.

I need to be fully masked.

I need a balaclava.

“I need a balaclava,” I tell the saleswoman at the sporting goods store.

She looks at me suspiciously.

“A balaclava,” I repeat. “A hood I can pull over my head so only my eyes are showing. “

Her eyes narrow even more.

“I know what it is,” she assures me. “What do you want it for?”

It suddenly occurs to me that perhaps I’m under surveillance. I quickly glance around the store to see if I can spot any hidden cameras that are recording my actions and words.

All I can see are displays of Speedos and backpacks, parkas and running shoes.

Night goggles. Nice ones, too.

I appreciate things like this now.

The saleswoman is waiting for my answer. A series of possible replies runs through my head –replies to distract her and keep the mission secret.

“I’m a cat burglar. Where did you say you live?”

Or “I’m a covert operative. If I say another word, I’ll have to kill you.”

Or “I like wearing masks. What do you like to wear? Do you want to show me?”

But I realize none of those answers will get me what I’ve come for: the balaclava. The success of the mission is hanging in the balance.

I’ve come too far to turn back now.

“I need it for walking my dog when it’s fricking cold out,” I finally break down and confess. “Otherwise, the dog is going to have to hold it till next spring. This is Minnesota, you know, and I’m planning on having the evening walk down to less than seven minutes when it’s sub-zero, and that includes cleaning up the dump. Are you happy now?”

“Very,” she says, but I can tell she’s debating whether to call for security. I know I can be intimidating when it comes to my mission. “Do you want a heavy or light weight mask?” she asks.

“I want my cheeks and nose not to freeze off.”

She takes me to a shelf stacked with several styles, all of them black.

“Nothing cheerier?” I ask. “I’m afraid my neighbors will call the police if they see me hanging around in a black mask.”

“Won’t they see your dog and know it’s you?”

“I’m training her to heel off leash,” I explain. “She has an electronic collar and usually responds pretty well to the signal, but sometimes she wanders a little into yards. I really don’t want to have to fetch her from under someone’s window when I’m wearing a black ski mask.”

She searches through the masks on a rack and pulls out a gray one with a plastic grate that sits over the nose and mouth.

Great. I can pretend I’m Darth Vader walking the dog.

No. This is too sensitive a mission for such levity. I need to stay focused. Dog walking in December in Minnesota is serious business. Dangerous, even. It can get REALLY cold, you know.

Nasty.

Icy.

I’m going to need backup.

I grab two balaclavas: one for me…and one for my daughter.

“Your mission,” I’ll tell her, “is not impossible…”