I had just completed a long Monday evening bike ride through the mean streets of Allen Park and Southgate and was putting my bike away in the garage. As can sometimes happen, the path leading to the back of the garage was crowded with chairs, rakes and games. I remedied this situation by picking up a patio chair and hurling it across the ping pong table to the opposite side of the garage where it came to rest on a surprised lawn mower.
I wasn’t mad at the chair. I was mad at the world because of my upcoming colonoscopy. The chair was just handy.
I had been dodging this appointment for six years, since the age of fifty. That is the magic number deemed by doctors when people should take a harsh laxative, shit their brains out, see a doctor, have a pipe blow air into their asshole and search for bad stuff (what else would you expect to find back there anyway?).
It all began with a trip to my family physician for my yearly physical, a misnomer since it had been two years since I had gone. After fondling my balls and sticking a finger (fingers?) up my arse, I was proclaimed to be in good condition. Better than two years ago, if you believe the numbers. But this was not good enough for Dr. Dziobak. I was ignoring my colonoscopy.
After his lecture and a tsk-tsk from the receptionist, I arrived home to find that my wife was in lock step with the two health care professionals. Were these three in cahoots?
I cursed up a storm, but promised to call Dr. Puccio the following day to set up my appointment. Based on what I knew about the health care industry, I was expecting to hear that the earliest appointment would be in the fall. But the tricky bastards at Oakwood Hospital informed me that I could make an appointment for the middle of next week. I have been lying for fifty-six years and consider myself highly skilled, but I could not come up with one reason why I shouldn’t take the 7 am appointment for Wednesday of the following week.
For the next few days, I was an utter asshole to live with (more so than usual, a Herculean task). I did not need a colonoscopy because:
I have no symptoms of colon cancer.
My family has no history of colon cancer.
I live a healthy life.
I am insanely regular.
I have never received anesthesia and have a heart murmur, so something bad might happen.
The doctor might nick something during the procedure and I will leave with a bag attached to my body (how could I go out boozing with such an attachment? Who am I kidding, I’d decorate the bag and go).
In five years, colonoscopies would go the way of tonsil removals; it is a gimmick to make money for the health industry.
I wore down Andrea throughout the week, and a couple of times she told me to “cancel the damn appointment”. But, I didn’t and the Tuesday before the Wednesday appointment arrived. I would go to work that day and endure all of the usual bullshit on a diet of green Jello and Gator-Aide. Yummy!
I hustled through the work day so that I could get home and begin the laxative drink- fest. The ride home was spent listening to loud music and getting my mind right, a warrior going to battle. Andrea was outside working in the yard when I exited my vehicle.
“Let’s do this.” (I now recognize the eye rolling theatrics of such a remark).
Looking in the fridge, I was shocked to see the size of the laxative jug, bigger than the gallon of milk it sat next to. I was to drink eight ounces every fifteen minutes. I regarded the label. Thank God it was lemon flavored.
I decided to log (pun intended) my drinking and shitting times on a sheet (pun intended) of paper. For the next five hours, I would chug each disgusting oily/salty high powered laxative dose in two or three gulps. Lemon, no. Lemon Pledge, maybe.
I regarded the enormous jug warily. The thought of emptying it was daunting. Then something on the label caught my eye. If, during the process, my waste turned into clear water, I could stop drinking the noxious liquid. Hope.
WARNING: GRAPHIC BOWEL MOVEMENT DESCRIPTION TO FOLLOW
My first sit down contained a degree of solidity. The remaining bouts were pure, evil liquid. The force of the expelling is startling. If you have ever used a garden hose with an adjustable nozzle, and opened the nozzle completely so that the water rushes out in its widest stream, you have some idea of what my Tuesday afternoon was all about. During this time, I read a Sports Illustrated cover to cover, including an article on conservation.
Sadly, clear liquid never shot out of my ass. It always maintained a certain sewer water quality forcing me to finish all of the laxative in the jug-o-fun.
Thirteen shits later, the jug and I were both empty. I threw away my Sports Illustrated, asked Andrea to hit the sofa I had been resting on with a mega dose of Fabreeze and fell asleep.
GRAPHIC SHIT RENDERING OVER: WEAK STOMACHS MAY CONTINUE READING
Wednesday morning: No eating, no drinking, no daily med. Once in my tastefully decorated private room complete with cable television and remote, I was instructed to strip to my socks and put on the open assed hospital gown. I declined the use of the television (first time I ever said no to the remote). I also declined polite conversation with my wife and stared straight ahead.
It was not easy to be this way, as everyone I came in contact with was professional and pleasant. Almost too pleasant. I could hear the workaday chit chat between nurses and doctors, songs being idly sung by those walking from room to room. Business as usual, a Wednesday. Didn’t they know I was tight as hell?
Yes, they knew. Each of them reminded me that yesterday was the tough part and that today was going to be a breeze. Everyone introduced themselves, explained what they were doing and spoke highly of Dr. Puccio. Relaxing was not an option, but I did not feel worse, and that made me feel better.
In a short period of time, they came to wheel me into the operating room. It was dark and cold in the room. I was instructed to lie on my side and open up the back of my gown by the only young and attractive nurse I would see all morning ( I personally debunked the “older guys are hot” theory for her). I saw Dr. Puccio walk into the room with a styrofoam cup of coffee and was told by the anesthesiologist that he would begin administering the anesthesia. For the briefest second a chill surge traveled up my arm.
I woke up in my private room. One minute or one day could have passed for all I knew. A nurse that I had not met earlier was by my side asking how I felt. Taking a moment to consider, I replied that I felt great. She asked if I wanted something to eat and drink. I settled on black coffee and four Lorna Doones. Fucking Lorna Doones rule!
Soon, Dr. Puccio entered the room. For the first time I noticed how young and handsome he was. Probably rich as hell too. Dick! He told me that everything went well, looked fine and that there were no polyps that needed removal. My hero!
Two hours after I left home scared as hell, I was back in the cozy confines of my kitchen with Andrea making me breakfast. My relief and happiness was deep.
A week later while watching television with my wife, a public service announcement blasting my arguments against the colonoscopy was aired. Andrea’s relief and happiness was deep.
Cheers, Jim
PS On the bright side, it did open up a whole avenue of crap talk for a week!
