WARNING: THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS GRAPHIC BITS OF INFORMATION VIS-À-VIS MY LOWER GASTROINTESTINAL SYSTEM. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
One of the benefits of turning 50 is that, besides grey hair sprouting from my nose, needing Pepsi to burp, and developing the nail fungus known as “Old Man Toe,” is that I develop an inordinate fear of latex gloves as my doctor now feels the need to say “howdy” to where no man has gone before.
The word “colonoscopy” is Greek in origin. Its entomology (no, wait a minute, that’s the study of ‘insects.’ I meant ‘etymology’-I can never get those straight) is based on “colonos” which derives from “butt” and “scopy” meaning “look see.” (NOTE: NOT the real meaning).
As befits my advancing years, I was recently treated to the full Monty (coincidentally, the doctor’s actual name). I felt sorry for the poor guys whose HMOs wouldn’t pay for a complete procedure. They were only able to afford a “semicolonoscopy.” (sorry).
The day before, I was directed to drink a couple bottles of what’s called Fleet Phospho Soda. This, once again, is a Greek term meaning “Ass Rocket Fuel.” Boy, does that stuff work! I haven’t felt that emotionally attached to my lavatorial facilities since my surgery in 1988 (another blog for another time).
Anyway, I felt like one of those water rockets we bought as kids. Remember those? You know, the kind you pump up with water until, when you can no longer pump them up, you just pop the cork and let ‘em fly? Yeah, a lot like that.
I could never predict when it was time for, uh, Old Faithful to erupt (so to speak). Needless to say, I left my white pants in the closet with the rest of my Miami Vice wardrobe.
Falling asleep was an adventure. Luckily for me (and my terrified wife), my own personal levees weren’t breached during the night. Although, by the time I woke up, I was so full that I felt like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade balloon (I don’t know which, but I’m sure it can’t be one of the popular ones).
Throughout the day, I had to fast (which was pretty easy since I’m ‘half-fast’, anyway). Although I couldn’t stray too far from my bathroom because, whenever I had to, uh, you know, I had to, uh, you know. Thank goodness I had plenty to read. Plus, my handheld Yahtzee.
I grew so famished throughout the day that I started licking the Sunday paper ads for Burger King.
Finally, my wife drove me to the rather unfortunately named “Dr. Mengele Center for Endoscopic Surgery-Sponsored by BEANO!”
After checking in, I was wheeled into the prep room where I had to disrobe and then asked if I had gone to the bathroom. Ya know, not for nothin’, wouldn’t it have been better to ask before I took my clothes off? That way, if I hadn’t used the bathroom, I wouldn’t have to parade naked through the waiting room, causing who knows how many people to lose their lunch.
Oh, and incidentally, I thought it was odd that it was the janitor who asked me to disrobe.
The nurse explained what was euphemistically called my “procedure.” My eyes grew wide when she cackled and showed me a picture of what was also happily nicknamed the “instrument.”
Jesus, they were going to shove a piece of PVC pipe so far up the exit that I could be a piñata for a sadist or, at the very least, a Popeye Lawn sprinkler.
She told me I would be filled with air as part of the invasion of the Anal Dawn Patrol. So I was encouraged to fart when I was done (not wanting to waste it, I decide to wait until church when I could make a joyful noise unto the Lord).
As they wheeled me into the operating room, I reminded them if they found any cave paintings, they were the property of the Smithsonian Institution.
I was informed I’d be so pumped full of drugs, I wouldn’t feel a thing. I told the “Butt People” that, since that was the case, they could do whatever they want. Hell, I wouldn't know. I wish I hadn’t told them that, though. Because I think I’m going to be on You Tube. With a monkey.
Luckily, everything turned out great. They did find a polyp (and Jimmy Hoffa) which they cut out. I plan on having it bronzed (the polyp, not Jimmy Hoffa).
So, that’s my story. As you can see, everything went well for the most part and I don’t have to lick the paper anymore.
But, I’ll never look at my garden hose the same way again.