Putting the ‘Ooh!’ in “Pooper”

So I got a colonoscopy today. In case you’re considering doing the same, let me cut right to the chase: It’s a hell of an excellent way to wreck two days of your life.

Ol’ Fang is rapidly becoming just plain old Old Fang (emphasis on “Old”). So my regular doctor schedules me for one of these procedures. I am undaunted. This is the same thing Katie Couric had done on national TV a few years ago, and she made it look like she was really, really high the whole time. That sounded pretty good to me so I played along.

The Two Wrecked Days

Wrecked Day the first is Monday. I have to fast all day. The list of stuff I cannot consume is so lengthy that I get frustrated and call the Butt People first thing in the morning and ask them if I can have Mountain Dew and lime popsicles. The Butt People Lady says yes and off I go. I tell myself I’m staging a hunger strike in solidarity with all them immigrant dudes who didn’t go to work that day. It’s silly, but without self-deception my inner life would be nothing but a constant silent regurgitation of useless ephemera and withering self-criticism, so this time I’m playing along with myself.

By the end of the day, I have a raging headache from not having fucking eaten anything all day (and all aspirin products five days before the procedure having been specifically forbidden by the Butt People) and now it’s time for me to begin drinking the toxic brew that has been prescribed to push every last nano-element of anything hiding in my bowels, out.

The Butt People Guy I had seen in preparation for this procedure described the stuff as tasting like “pineapple-flavored sweat.” He was not inaccurate. He didn’t, however, mention the engine-oil consistency of the beverage. Or the fact that every chug of the awful stuff would have me fighting my gag reflex. My mission, should I decide to accept it? Drink a gallon of it. Holy God…

I make my way through only about 2/3 of the gallon, but it was enough to do the trick. Monday night is all about staying up past my bedtime, choking down an undrinkable elixir and squatting and squirting.

Everybody assures me this is the worst of it, which in some ways is true. Looking back, I can see myself getting all doped up and manhandled again by the Butt People if need be, but the thought of drinking that stuff ever again makes me seriously consider an ugly death by colo-rectal cancer as the lesser of two evils.

Wrecked Day the second was today.

I wake up and yesterday’s gale-force headache has metastasized into a cat-5 tsunami of cranial discomfort. The Missus, Man-Cub and I pile into the car and drive to the Butt People place alllll the way over on the other side of the island.

I figure I’m in for a swell high and am in good spirits, my splitting headache notwithstanding. The Missus and I trade butt-related puns as we walk into the building, and it’s all in good fun. Hell, they even told me they were gonna give me a drug to make me forget the whole procedure afterwards. Man, I’m up for this. I wrack my brain trying to come up with a plausible scenario that includes receiving all the drugs but rules out the anal penetration, but to no avail.

There’s forms to fill out. One line asks me what title I would prefer to be addressed by. I write “Commander.” The Missus giggles and rolls her eyes.

Boy, are we having fun.

Shortly thereafter, when the lady behind the desk calls out in a tentative voice, “Commander?” The Missus has to poke me in the ribs to remind me that that’s me.

I go back into the prep area, change into my backless hospital gown and chat up the admissions nurse while she looks for a vein to poke. Poke! She explains that is not the drugs part yet, this is just a saline solution. She assures me the next Butt Person I see will administer the kill-pain, make-me-forget dope. Then me and my splitting headache lay on a gurney staring up into the brutal fluorescent light for 45 minutes.

The good drugs lady finally arrives. I tell her to please take a really aggressive whack at it, as I have a low pain threshold and a very high drug tolerance. In short order I will learn that she thought I was only kidding.

I’m wheeled into the surgery room. As the banks of rectangular fluorescent lights go rolling by overhead, I find myself wondering if some day this will be the last sight I ever see, as it is for so many.

This thought does not help.

The procedure room is even more brightly lit than the prep area which had been like staring into the face of sun. The drugs aren’t even addressing my headache yet and the cold, clammy hand of fear begins to close over my heart.

They start doing their thing and I keep telling them, “Augh! Augh!” as I feel the damned tube snaking its way though the interior of my torso. I was told there wouldn’t be pain, dammit! Every few “Augh!”s the doctor tells somebody to increase the drugs but I still feel them inside me.

No problem, I tell myself. Even though they were stingy with the kill-pain drug, I’m counting on the make-me-forget drug to, well, make me forget.

If you’ve read this far, you know by now that the make-me-forget drug did not work as promised either. I go in and out of consciousness during the procedure, but I remember every turn that damned tube took.

Next thing I know, I’m in the recovery room, and they’re admitting The Missus and Man-Cub. I’m grateful it’s over and still a little goofy from the sedatives. I’m back in It’s All In Good Fun Mode. On the wheelchair ride to the parking lot I even summon the elevator before the orderly pushing me can, by kicking the “Down” button with my foot. She doesn’t really appreciate my initiative and makes sure to let me know.

Man, I think this is my longest post ever. Sorry.

Anyhow, I get car sick on the 40-mile ride home and pass out. When we fiiiinally arrive home I shuffle up the stairs to our tiny, crappy apartment, crawl into bed and pass out again.

I wake up a couple hours later, still feeling like shit. The food I try to eat – some of my favorite stuff we’ve laid in for just this occasion - tastes like shit. Everything is shit. Now it’s 11:30 at night, and I’m just starting to feel human again.

Two wrecked days. Big time.

Oh yeah, almost forgot the whole point of why I put myself through this: they found a polyp of the “bloody” variety in my colon. They removed it and are gonna biopsy it and tell me what the what is just as soon as they can. If treatment is required, as long as it doesn’t require me drinking another gallon of piss-flavored engine oil, I will submit, if not for my sake than for The Missus and Man Cub. Inexplicably, she still wants me around, and he’s too young to have begun hating and resenting me yet. And I wouldn’t miss his eventual, inevitable teenaged contempt for anything.

To sum up: Katie Couric is a better man than I am (although I might have put on a brave face too if a camera crew was there filming the whole awful ordeal); I love my family enough to do it again (some day, maybe) in spite of the wretchedness of the experience; and the length of this report is ample reminder why I usually never write about my personal life.

So if your doctor schedules you for a colonoscopy, go ahead and do it. All quips aside, early cancer detection saves lives. Just don’t believe a word they tell you about how pleasant an experience they will make it for you because IT’S ALL LIES!!!

If you go in knowing that this experience will cost you two perfectly good days of your life, it will hopefully ameliorate the indignity and discomfort of the actual experience.

I wish someone had warned me.