Fire in the Hole: The Colonoscopy Diaries (Part 2)
Monday, August 10, 2009 at 2:53AM The Floodgates Open
The HalfLytely and Bisacodyl Tablets Bowel Prep Kit is implemented the day prior to one's colonoscopy. All Duodenum's Eve, I think, is the official name for the holiday. You begin by taking the pills in the morning which prime you for the first movement of what is to be a very long scatological symphony. By mid-afternoon, about sixteen hours into your prescribed fasting period, you start drinking the viscous, premixed solution. Eight ounces every ten minutes for eighty minutes.
The experience is similar to chugging 64 ounces of alien sperm at some hour-long intergalactic gangbang. I'm not sure how I know that. Anyway, the stuff begins to work like Drano on what little food or dignity you have left in your plumbing. You'd think there would be little to expunge, what with the fasting and all.
But no.
Camden, N.J. hours after my bowel prep kit took effectThe internal sluicing starts off mildly enough. Then, about two hours later* (*results may vary), it's "Watch out Johnstown!"
The dam done burst.
Shut 'er down. She's pumpin' mud.
Bring a book to this dance. You're sitting it out alone. Might I suggest Dostoyevsky or Joyce. Something either long or complicated to take your mind off the other dramatic outpourings the situation demands. You will be reminded of the old SNL parody commercial for "Colon Blow" with Phil Hartman. Only not as fibrous. There will be things pouring out of you that seem impossible: a corned beef sandwich from 1977, old car parts, a pledge to the Whig Party, remnants of a baby shark and most certainly your pride and shame.
Around six hours later the last drop of moisture from your body will have been removed. You will feel like a prisoner from Bataan. You will begin hallucinating, wandering about and shouting, "These pipes are clean!". There will be water everywhere but nary a drop to drink.
It will feel like rifle butts are pounding your kidneys. The weaker around you will begin to falter and die by the roadside. You'll cry out for your buddies and your mother. Simone put on her Tojo outfit and spectacles for the full effect and began ridiculing me in the short, sharp, cacophonic tones of Nipponese.
I went to bed extremely hungry. I pretended to have malaria. I had thinned.
Simone, assessing the damage to our home after my feculent flux In the morning, Simone was pampering me, knowing full well I had spent over 36 hours without the slightest hint of pizza. My previous record was 32 hours when I was held hostage by Estonian rebels in the '90s. An incident best left unexplained.
She would be the designated driver to and from the Colon & Rectal Surgery Center. She was being kind and helpful. It's so nice when her ice facade melts and she can show human emotions other than envy or rage.
I was getting a bit nervous. This was my first ever medical procedure and while not labeled "surgery" I was to be put under intravenously. My anxiety grew to fever pitch when I scanned the waiting room and discovered a midget child watching the teevee in the corner.
There are all sorts of unfounded curses, myths and old wives' tales handed down through the generations of all cultures and creeds. I have never been one to dwell on the mystical nonsense of superstitious peoples. But I am pretty sure that seeing a dwarf minutes before undergoing a colonoscopy is universally bad fuggum from Alabama to Zaire.
It's like seeing a clown before committing murder... glimpsing Rahm Emanuel outside the courtroom as a witness for your prosecution... being a Jets fan.
You are fucking doomed.
The little person's grasping nubs played with the remote long enough to find the Fox News Channel. An omen no more crystal clear as to my fate than had a gypsy woman walked into the room and claimed me a child of the wolfbane and moon.
I was condemned on this earthly plane.
I turned to Simone and said my final goodbyes.
"I leave you the cats. I understand you will exploit them. My writings, publish as you see fit. Sell them to the Library of Congress. I do not mind. They've done some okay work over the years."
"Or bind the scribblings in a giant tome and set it ablaze on the lawn of Nora Roberts' house. That, perhaps, would be more fitting."
"Remember me in that way you have, unlike others, without pity or disdain."
"I lived a good life. I could have been nicer to people. They could have helped me out a fucking bit. I mean, really, what a bunch of assholes. I was a fun guy."
"No real regrets, except for passing on the occasional trim and not eating more peyote. The epitaph on my urn should read, 'Always had a laugh at your expense'."
"I want you to book a flight to anywhere, preferably Tunisia, and take my urn up 30,000 feet, excuse yourself from your seat, open the emergency door and throw yourself and my ashes to the winds of the world as a final terrorist act."
She agreed.
It's funny. People think they know their spouses. Life mates and god and promises and children and all that. They don't know shit. Simone would jump out of that plane. No questions asked.
That is true love.
I was giddy at the prospect of dying mid-procedure.
We celebrated our tenth anniversary the next weekend.
She is a rock.
I am stone.
That's how it functions.
Next: You're going to put what where?
Reader Comments (2)
My favorite so far mon ami. I have had two colonoscopies. Thank God for anesthesia. If that was ten years with Simone when you wrote this then you are just passing eleven. Congratulations. A partner like that, named Simone, and living in the beer capital of North America. That sounds like heaven for you.
It is heaven, my anonymous friend.
And I say "anonymous" due to the fact that I chopped up Lars' diminutive form and buried him in the desert over nine years ago.
You, Sir or Madam, are an impostor.
But I like your style.
I'm sure you will reveal yourself when the time is right.
Until then, let us continue to chat, yes?
I simply adore a mystery.