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My new
year’s resolution was to grow up, bite the bullet, and get a colonoscopy. That was two years ago. A mere 21 months later I find myself lying in
a hospital bed chatting nervously with a freckle-faced 24 year old. She claims to be my anesthesiologist. “Having three kids gave me hemorrhoids,” I confide.
“Kids are great,” she mumbles, sifting through my charts. I hesitate to antagonize a potential ‘Angel
of Mercy’, but I do it anyway.
“Babies may be great, but teens are like free radicals. Exposure shortens your life span.”
“I take
it you don’t like kids.”
“Not at
all, I love my kids. Just wait till you
have some, you’ll understand. The drugs
are making me talk crazy.”
“That’s
interesting, because I haven’t given you any yet.”
I’m mid
offended retort when she pushes the plunger on her big ‘ole syringe full of
tranquilizers. She may have gotten the
last word, but in the end, I got Channing Tatum. He appears out of nowhere and pulls me onto
the back of his manly purple jet ski. We
speed off towards a secluded grotto on Virgin Gorda where we will thumb wrestle
and share intimate stories about our childhoods. I know that I am high as a kite, but my grip on his washboard abs feels very, very real.
“You
were inspiring in Magic Mike,” I shout over the roar of the jet ski, just before
his face dissolves, everything fades to black and a camera is unceremoniously stuck
up my butt. Not quite the happy ‘ending’
I was hoping for.
A
colonoscopy is a superbly humiliating medical procedure. Is getting one done worth three seconds with in
paradise with Channing Tatum? Without a
doubt. While a couple of states have
recently passed some edgy “leisure weed” laws, the only socially acceptable,
federally recognized, totally legitimate
high is still doctor induced.
And if
I’m anything, I’m a rule follower.
There
is no moral dilemma when you are offered anesthesia. (Let’s ignore, for a moment, Christian
Scientists and the natural childbirth types.) You are being a grownup. You are taking care of your health, making
sure you’ll be around to send your kids to college, doing the ‘right
thing’. And if doing the right thing
happens to be accompanied by a few moments of pure euphoria, I say go for it. Your doctor is about to embark on a Grand Tour
of your innards, via your tender behind.
You need something to take the
edge off that thought.
Only
good things can come from getting a colonoscopy. For one, you can cancel your gym membership. You never go anyway. When it comes to exercise, diets and the
national debt, most of us lack the necessary self-discipline. A rigorous, pre-procedure ‘cleanse’ is equal to
50 hours on an elliptical. No self-discipline
required. This is the fiscal cliff of
procedures. You simply can’t vote or
mint your way out of prep. No cleanse;
no colonoscopy.
Your Doc
will not go up there if she has to fight her way up through a load of compacted
pizza cheese and Oreos. No point in it. “Too hard to see the forest for the trees,” is
the way she explained it to me, drawing a field of unlikely looking polyps and
a dead stick figure on her white board. She
draws like a three year old, but I got the point.
I lost
5 pounds during my colon prep, and let me tell you, I was svelte. I was also extremely light headed and unable
to drive, which rendered me useless as a parent, but then, every path has its
puddle. Of course I gained it all back
within 48 hours. But if I am ever foolish
enough to attend another high school reunion, it will be the day after a
colonoscopy.
Before
you get your colonoscopy, ask your parents to describe their experience to you in
graphic detail. They will do this
whether you ask or not, so you might as well get some brownie points for
bringing it up. I got some valuable tips
from my folks this way, and an Appleby’s gift card.
For
example, my mom advised me on the pitfalls of adult diapers. “Stick with the name brands!” she warned, “those
store brands are junk! Make sure the leg
seals are tight!” This was good info because
I had failed to fully understand what effect a quadruple dose of Dulcolax would
have on my bowels. FYI, they were furious.
Unless
you are able to confine yourself to the bathroom or a dog crate for the day,
you’ll need the diapers. Don’t send your
husband out to get them or he’ll grab a pack of XXL in yellow. And don’t tell the kids in carpool that you
are wearing a Depends. They have no empathy
and you will end up on YouTube.
My mom
and I had fun comparing our hallucinations.
Mom saw cucumbers and a floating freckle shaped like a zeppelin. She says her doctor has a prominent,
charismatic mole. I refuse to
hypothesize about the meaning of the cucumbers. She’s my mom, and she was probably having
multiple drug interactions at the time.
The woman takes over thirty different pills a day, so I for one am going
to cut her some slack.
After
Channing’s ill-timed departure, I spent my last semi-conscious moments trying
to adjust what felt like a terribly uncomfortable thong. Wait! Could it be that I wasn’t completely under? Curse you, malevolent,
freckle-faced anesthesiologist!
Channing and I could have
had something. ------------------------------------------------------------------------
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