This Friday afternoon will see me five pounds lighter, stripped of my street clothing and lying nearly naked in a rude bed, hopped up to my eyeballs on drugs, listening to some New Age music, and watching a psychedelic light show alongside three or four masked strangers.
Do we live in a great age or what?
Do we live in a great age or what?
Of course, there is the trivial detail of a colonoscopy.
First comes Thursday when I am restricted all day to a clear liquid diet: broth, popsicles (Really? Popsicles? You gotta be kidding me! I haven't had a popsicle in thirty years. What a great opportunity to visit my childhood!), jello, soft drinks, and Gatorade. Black coffee is acceptable, so bring it on!
At 5:00 p.m. on Thursday I begin drinking my Colyte Bowel Prep. The instructions require me to drink half a gallon of this vile concoction, imbibing 8 ounces every 10 to 15 minutes. Having undergone this procedure one other time, I will tell you that this mixture would turn the stomach of a shark, but it performs marvelously well. (I am reminded of an old Three Stooges' chant: "Over the lips and over the gums, Look out stomach, Here it comes"). That soup of chemicals will have me doing the green-apple quickstep until bedtime.
The next morning, five hours before the procedure, the remaining half-gallon must be consumed. During my last bout of this gastronomical jamboree, I got to within an inch of the bottom of the gallon jug before thinking, “To hell with this” and tossing both jug and contents into the garbage. I expect to do the same on my second go-round.
But then comes the exciting part. I arrive at the gastro center and though I will need to fill out a few more forms, this is when the real fun begins. I get to put on one of those funky hospital gowns, I get poked with a needle, I become high as a kite in a stiff wind, and at the doctor’s invitation I get to watch as his miniature camera swims up my colon. (All I remember from this part of the procedure are videos of vivid reds and pinks. And now I wonder: How far removed from reality was I? Did I blurt out anything untoward to the doctor and nurses? Did I confess my darkest sins? Did I recite some poem I had written? Did I solve the mysteries of the universe? And this time around I shall also wonder: will I achieve enlightenment and thereby understand why a billionaire like Donald Trump can’t afford better hair care?)
Then it’s time to get dressed, stagger to a car, and be dropped at home by my brother, who as driver regrettably isn't allowed to share in the fun.
Hey, call me a thrill-seeker, but I am looking forward to another entertaining excursion through my insides.
And if you haven’t considered such a ride yourself, let me recommend it to you. Drugs, wild movies, weight loss, a day of rest: man, what more could you ask for? You know it's a blast. Just look at the perky, smiling nurses in the photograph above! Everybody's just partying on!
Besides, a colonoscopy might just save your life.
After my last procedure, my family physician and friend, the good Dr. Rennard, told me that he had read my report, that the gastroenterologist had sliced and diced some polyps, and that I would have been sleeping the big sleep in three or four years without that cleaving.
Which basically means I’d be dead right now. (All of my life I have hated disappointing others, so for those readers who might find my demise cause for celebration, my deepest apologies).
So what more can you ask for? All this excitement plus years added to your life.
Who needs Disney World?
First comes Thursday when I am restricted all day to a clear liquid diet: broth, popsicles (Really? Popsicles? You gotta be kidding me! I haven't had a popsicle in thirty years. What a great opportunity to visit my childhood!), jello, soft drinks, and Gatorade. Black coffee is acceptable, so bring it on!
At 5:00 p.m. on Thursday I begin drinking my Colyte Bowel Prep. The instructions require me to drink half a gallon of this vile concoction, imbibing 8 ounces every 10 to 15 minutes. Having undergone this procedure one other time, I will tell you that this mixture would turn the stomach of a shark, but it performs marvelously well. (I am reminded of an old Three Stooges' chant: "Over the lips and over the gums, Look out stomach, Here it comes"). That soup of chemicals will have me doing the green-apple quickstep until bedtime.
The next morning, five hours before the procedure, the remaining half-gallon must be consumed. During my last bout of this gastronomical jamboree, I got to within an inch of the bottom of the gallon jug before thinking, “To hell with this” and tossing both jug and contents into the garbage. I expect to do the same on my second go-round.
But then comes the exciting part. I arrive at the gastro center and though I will need to fill out a few more forms, this is when the real fun begins. I get to put on one of those funky hospital gowns, I get poked with a needle, I become high as a kite in a stiff wind, and at the doctor’s invitation I get to watch as his miniature camera swims up my colon. (All I remember from this part of the procedure are videos of vivid reds and pinks. And now I wonder: How far removed from reality was I? Did I blurt out anything untoward to the doctor and nurses? Did I confess my darkest sins? Did I recite some poem I had written? Did I solve the mysteries of the universe? And this time around I shall also wonder: will I achieve enlightenment and thereby understand why a billionaire like Donald Trump can’t afford better hair care?)
Then it’s time to get dressed, stagger to a car, and be dropped at home by my brother, who as driver regrettably isn't allowed to share in the fun.
Hey, call me a thrill-seeker, but I am looking forward to another entertaining excursion through my insides.
And if you haven’t considered such a ride yourself, let me recommend it to you. Drugs, wild movies, weight loss, a day of rest: man, what more could you ask for? You know it's a blast. Just look at the perky, smiling nurses in the photograph above! Everybody's just partying on!
Besides, a colonoscopy might just save your life.
After my last procedure, my family physician and friend, the good Dr. Rennard, told me that he had read my report, that the gastroenterologist had sliced and diced some polyps, and that I would have been sleeping the big sleep in three or four years without that cleaving.
Which basically means I’d be dead right now. (All of my life I have hated disappointing others, so for those readers who might find my demise cause for celebration, my deepest apologies).
So what more can you ask for? All this excitement plus years added to your life.
Who needs Disney World?
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