Colonoscopies seem to make quite an impression upon people. You never forget your first one – though, of course you try through
years of therapy. Just kidding. It’s similar to, I suppose, your first roller
coaster, or maybe your first car wreck.
Anyhow, I thought I might share some of my reflections, for
the benefit of you who are yet uninitiated, and perhaps to the fond
recollection of those who are.
When people say, “the worst part is the prep,” they are oh
so right. See, your system has to be “prepped,” which means purged of everything
(and that includes food, dignity, and any sense of well-being) in order to make
sure the “scope” has an unobstructed view of your colonular region. (Hope I’m
not getting too technical). To accomplish this first step, you need a
prescription for what is called “the prep.” Insider’s tip: the “prep” is
basically the most powerful laxative ever known to man, one which might end the
war on terror if we could only get our enemies to drink about a gallon of it. (Sir, all the terror cells are gone. Everyone
seems to be in the bathroom.)
So I picked up the “prep” at the pharmacy. Normally your
prescription is a little brown bottle of pills, right? When the pharmacist
plunked down a gallon jug with my name on it, I knew I was in trouble. The name
of my “prep” was Golytely. Seriously. No matter how you pronounce this, it is
only partly true. You do go, but not
by any definition, lightly.
You fill the jug with a gallon of water. It already has the “special
powder” in the bottom, which I’m only guessing was an isotope of the element “Crampium.”
Someone told me to add a couple packets of Crystal Light, which was good
advice. Instead of tasting like the clogged-drain-opening chemical you keep
under the kitchen sink, it tasted like that, but with bright notes of lemon. I
had to drink three quarts of this the night before my procedure, and finish the
last quart early in the morning. (Something to look forward to that night!)
Honestly, it was very awful, and tasted like something that
should never be placed in the human body. And in point of fact it does not
remain in the human body for long. Within about an hour anything you have eaten
within the last decade is transformed into molten lava and expelled from your
body with the force of a Cruise missile. For the next several hours you are,
for all intents and purposes, a human bottle rocket.
So anyhow, that’s how I got ready for what I’ve been calling
the “up-periscope” procedure. My wife drove me to my appointment, and I got to change
into the “gown of shame.” They told me I could leave my shirt and socks on,
though, so that helped me preserve my sense of not being entirely exposed. It
you’re going to leave your entire gluteal area open to the breeze, it is really
comforting to have your shirt on!
So they started an IV to give me “something to relax me” and
within a few minutes I met my doctor. She was a pony-tailed young woman who
looked about fourteen. They wheeled me into the exam room and the doctor told
me to roll onto my left side. (But if I
do that, my robe will gap open and…oh, I see where this is going.) I got a
couple shots of something, and I was very, very mellow for the first time in a
couple days. The phrase “stick it where the sun don’t shine” took on new
meaning, I admit, but it wasn’t too bad. To pass the time, I even watched a monitor
where someone was, apparently, playing a video game. There was this long,
twisty, scary-looking tunnel, and a little light-sabery thing was trying to
find its way out. Eventually whoever was playing must have given up and backed
out of the tunnel. Too bad. I kind of wanted a turn.
Anyhow, it was over in about 20 minutes, they wheeled me
back out, and gave me some orange juice. Doogie Howser’s sister, my doctor,
came and talked to me and gave me a good report. Thank You, Jesus.
Okay, so that’s my story. I have just one more thing to say,
especially to you who may be reluctant to get a colonoscopy.
My father died of colon cancer. If he had had this test, it probably
would have saved his life. Look, it’s not that bad. You probably won’t even
feel the scope part of it. If you’re over 50, you need to schedule it. Let me
know when you’ve set it up, and I promise I’ll be praying for you. God bless you.
