Fire in the Hole: The Colonoscopy Diaries (Part 3)
Monday, August 17, 2009 at 9:50AM Wherein your humble narrator is thusly probed
"How much water have you had in the last twelve hours?", the nurse snipped at me.
"I had about a dram with my usual medications this morning, but nothing since 10 o'clock last night", I meekly replied.
"Well, that's the problem", she hissed.
Now, I had received 200 or so alerts in the past week, both verbally and written, warning me not to ingest too many fluids (or ones of particular hues) in the 24 hours leading up to my colonoscopy. Why this pinch-faced harpy was in a snit was no fault of my own. She was miffed over her professional inability to locate a vein of mine for the IV drip. 
Luckily for her, she looked like a Who's the Boss? era Judith Light. My growing chubby forgave her everything. Bring on the needle, you sexy bitch, I love how your metal feels inside of me!
She stuck me a few more times, the last three being mere acts of sadism and spite, when she gave up in bitter frustration and called in a specialist. A dashing and handsome young man in OR scrubs (everyone is frightfully good looking here at the Colon & Rectal Surgery Center) strode in and took control of the situation.
"Let's just see what we have here", he assured me while firmly grabbing my wrist. He felt strong and in control. I was his.
"Jesus!", I thought, "I'm behaving like an ambiguous sex fiend and I haven't even had any drugs yet."
He poked me in just the right spot (the crook of my arm) and taped the small catheter to my bicep. It was approaching about one half-hour since I had been admitted, signed numerous documents, settled my co-pay, stripped and put on my paper gowns. 
My anxiety grew. It was getting close to "go time". I could almost sense the optic rectal probe lingering near. Peeking around the corner at my weakened form and slaking its desire on my vulnerability. It thirsted for anus. My anus. No other's would do.
"Where are the goddamn drugs?", I fumed, "I'm losing my mind over here."
A kindly woman in pink assisted me out of the chair and guided me by the elbow to an operating room. My doctor entered. He was a welcomed sight. I laid down as he explained the procedure and what it was he was looking for. He had a good bedside manner. If his was the last face I was to see before my demise, so be it.
I thought of Simone's face at that moment. How I might never gaze upon it again. It was just as well. My final image of her was the hateful, contorted features of her otherwise beautiful mug, snarling at me in the admitting room while threatening, "You better not die!"
She has a way, that one.
A male nurse gripped my prepped arm and inserted the IV. I stared up at the lights of the room and then side to side at the boys in powder blue and surgical green. Good, stalwart looking fellows. I felt at peace. A oneness with all mankind. Jesus and god were not there. As those fuckers had never shown before, I was expecting very little from them now. The woman in pink smiled at me and left. She seemed to think everything was going to be hunky-dory. I asked the male nurse how long the anesthesia would take.
"About eight to fourteen seconds", he said, administering it.
"That's so cool", I chuckled.
I began the count.
I never made it to nine.
The puddle of drool that had gathered on my pillow briefly formed a saliva bridge between itself and my lips as I lifted my head up.
"Yuggh", I garbled, wiping the spit on the paper sleeve of my gown.
I was still very groggy, but awake... and, yes, alive. Alive goddamnit! I had cheated that bastard Death one more time. Still a bit hazy, I propped myself up on an elbow and took measure of the room. It was a different room. Recovery, I imagined. What had happened? I realized I knew exactly where I was and why I was there but I had absolutely no recollection of anything since I asked the nurse about the anesthesia. How long had it been? Hours? Minutes? Days? I felt my chin. Shaven, no Rip Van Winkle evidence.
What had I said? What state secrets did I reveal? What state secrets did I know? That was a better question. Had I confessed any crimes? Given out any damning personal admissions or information? Revealed where my porno and coke stashes were? Was there magic marker on my face? Is that the ball-stink of my male nurse I smell on my lips? Had I been sexually abused while under?
Then I remembered they put a camera tube about thirteen hundred feet up my rectum, so it would be a bit hard to tell anyway. I had been thoroughly violated anally whichever way you sliced it. Actually, I hoped somebody had a good time. Unless through some bizarre anesthetic memory recall or the development of an STD, I'd never know the difference anyway.
A handsome African-American woman greeted me and asked how I was.
"Good, I think. Does my lover know I'm alive?"
"The Doctor consulted her right after the procedure", she said.
"How'd it go?"
"He'll be in to tell you shortly."
She offered me cookies and juice and told me to lay on my side and fart to my heart's content. She insisted I get all the gas out of me. Simone could definitely learn a thing or two about pleasing a man from this Nubian angel.
I bitched about the cookies not being double chocolate macadamia chunk and she laughed. The Doctor soon entered and shook my hand. I scanned his face for hints on my results.
He smiled.
"We found three polyps, all benign, and removed them. I found no evidence at all for the cause of blood in your stool. Everything looked fine. Normal wear and tear" (I think I made that part up).
So, good news all around. I decided to name the polyps that had been forever excised from me. I felt I owed them that much. After all, they too were part of this grand experiment called Adolph.
They will be hitherto known as:
1) Pol Polyp (after the Cambodian leader)
2) Polyp Wolly Doodle (after my favorite children's song)
and
3) Anders Ek (after my second favorite Swedish actor).
Fare thee well, benign and benighted polyps, fare thee well.
Overall, the experience is much less stressful than I had been told. There is no pain involved whatsoever. The only struggle is forcing down the bowel prep solution the prior day and sitting like an incontinent Ramesses on the thrown for the next six hours. And if you're accustomed to the loose stools that only heavy drink can offer, this too is a walk in the park. Not a recommended excursion, mind you, but nowhere near the horrific journey that had been on the lips, Cassandra-like, of those alerting me to my forthcoming pain and danger.
Simone cracked a grin as she pulled back the curtain on the dressing room where I was struggling with my Chuck Taylors.
She leaned coyly against the wall, arms folded, beaming that cool, breezy smile that still sets my heart on end.
"Hello, Handsome", she minxed, "Can I buy you a pizza pie?"
"Sure, Doll", I countered, "That sounds nice."
"If you're a good boy, I'll throw in a few Goose martinis and a hoover to boot."
"No ass play", I insisted.
"No ass play", she assured.
It was a fond reunion. Looking up at her, I recalled why it is I am more willing with age to jump through these health hoops put before me. It is not from any sort of feral survival mechanism within but, simply, to maximize the time I have left with this wonderful woman. It is in these moments that I shed my perpetual cynicism and misanthropy, become thankful for the ridiculously cushy life I have led and celebrate, once more, my recession from the brink of infinity.
Reader Comments (3)
yours was way funnier than mine. and sweeter.
who'da thunk it? "Colonoscopy: A Love Story"?!
next time get the pills instead of all that goddamned liquid to drink down, yo. they got pills now.
Next time?!?!?!
Oh, please, no.
Thanks for the tip, Doctor Eddie Baby.
Doctor Eddie is right, I have done it both ways...ask for pills only if God forbid there is a second go round. I wonder if alien abductees get flushed out before the probing. I wonder if any have gone to bed constipated and awakened to wonder what happened to the blockage....