before my wife started bugging me about scheduling my first colonoscopy. I mean, getting mailings from AARP was bad enough, but a camera in my ass was something I was really trying to avoid until the last possible moment. Eventually I caved and made an appointment, then cancelled, made another appointment two months off, then tried to forget about it.
Three days before doomsday it reentered my consciousness: I had to locate the massive squarish white bag with stapled instructions on the side purchased two months previously for bowels prep. I had done my best to lose it again after rescheduling but eventually found it sitting halfway up the back stairs goading me with a look of I knew you’d be back. I ripped open the bag and read the instructions. There were four packets, two A, two B, that needed to be mixed at 6:00 P.M. the day before. I was to mix one A and B packet in 32 ounces of water, shake thoroughly, then leisurely drink down eight ounces ever fifteen minutes for an hour: then repeat the process at 5:00 A.M. the next morning.
D-day, my wife cut off the packet tops with scissors as I watched each pack enter the special mixing container. She shook it, poured it into an eight ounce glass and folded her arms staring at me. I chugged the first glass, no problem, like an alcoholic with a shot glass. The consistency was like water, but tasted like an odd lemon-lime mix without enough sugar. I exhaled and went about my business. Each successive glass was thicker as I neared the bottom, plus less lemon with more chemical flavor. Yuck. By the time I got to the fourth glass, I was sipping at the top, painfully gulping mini sips. I was gagging, and because I had yet to release a single toilet barrage, my stomach was tight and full. My wife gave a small pat on my melon sized stomach and commented that she had never felt my stomach so tight. It took me another forty-five minutes to choke down the final glass after pacing up and down stairs and rolling on the bed. I massaged my colon at my wife’s suggestion, willing the fluid out of my system. I would wait another three and a half hours until the sweet relief of an 11:00 P.M. rush to the bathroom. For the next four hours I would literally run back every 20 to 35 minutes to release another waterfall of liquid. This must be what it feels like to be a woman, I thought, unhinging wave after wave of an unpleasant afterbirth like substance.
be what it feels like to be a woman, I thought, unhinging wave after wave of an unpleasant afterbirth like substance.
The 5:00 p.m. alarm went off as my wife, exhausted by my late night routine slept away. I knew if I were to go through this process again, I was on my own and would have to take responsibility for completing the second phase. The thing that drove me out of bed was the recurring thought that if I failed to follow the process to the letter, the colonoscopy would be invalid, and I’d have to start from square one. I couldn’t bear the thought, and quickly mixed the two pouches before holding my breath to plunge the lemon lime elixir of death down my clenching throat. It got easier, I cat napped for fifteen minutes, rose to choke down the next glass until it was 6:00 a.m. Done!...or so I thought. Turns out, after the first batch of flushing deliciousness, the second round roars through your bowels like a lake turned loose by a crumbling dam. I could feel it on the move this time, and after only twenty minutes of peace, I was reading on the toilet again. When I finally purged myself of the last of the fluid around 6:30 p.m., it was clear and I was left with thirty minutes of sleep before the slow build toward my 10:00 a.m. appointment.
I went in to work to what amounted to 40 minutes. I looked around, admired the coffee pot, and returned a single e-mail before my wife called ready to meet in the parking lot below. I was to be early the card said, and by God, I was going to obey every direction to the letter to avoid a second performance. I exchanged only a few words with Deb on the drive to the office, tight-lipped, eyes forward.
The office was filled with white haired seniors, and judging by their complacent, quiet faces, ones who had visited the colonoscopy table on many occasions. I checked in at the front desk in my sleek gray track suit with orange highlights, and impressed the nurse by being almost an hour early.