I am about to experience, but hopefully, not remember, one of my worst fears in life. No, I’m not about to be eaten alive by a 600lb tarantula. I am not about to walk into 12th grade science class butt naked. Nor am I going to eat squirrel pot pie with stewed okra. I am going to have a Brazilian Butt Lift. (AKA colonoscopy.)
Your hiney just clenched, didn’t it? Its ok, I know the feeling.
The mere thought of it is terrifying me. I had 8 kids in 8 years. That’s 72 almost non-stop months of pressure on my bum, and not one hemorrhoid, not one pile, not one reason to stock up on the Preparation H and Tucks. Purely by the power of mind control. I willed it NOT to happen because there was NO WAY some doctor was going to scoot their chair over to the foot end of the patient table I am lying on and say “Now, lets have a looksee.”
Sure, I had countless interns elbow deep in other parts of me checking for dilation, presentation and such, but my rear end? OH HELL NO!
That’s what makes this turn of events so damn…I don’t know… colonic? I mean, ironic?
I spent the last 15 years meditating on my intact bum hole and its as of yet, unchartered territories, only to have its innocence stolen from me at the ripe old age of 39. According to the American Cancer Society, the American College of Radiology and the U .S. Multi-Society Task Force on Colorectal Cancer I am a good 11 years early for this particular soiree. And the funny part is that I’m usually late for everything.
No, I’m not planning on going the Katie Couric route, and stay awake for the procedure. Tweet mid-scope and document the event for prosperity. I will happily take the propafol that will almost instantly render me defenseless to the will of my doctor and her staff, whom I trust will not draw inappropriate things on my face, take pictures with their iPhone and then post them to Facebook like my teen children and their friends seem to love doing to each other.
I will hopefully wake up thinking of dancing bacon again or something equally as awesome.
A good 3 hours into the preparation I realize, its not the actual scope that I need to be worried about because epic chemistry will handle that part, its what leads up to it that strikes fear into the souls of those poor bastards like me destined to have their large colon photographed, biopsied and generally mucked around with by their gastroenterologist.
Without any further adieu let me present to you all, THE PREPARE TO FEEL LIKE YOU DIED AND WENT TO HELL PREPARATION SCHEDULE.
10am today: 10fl oz of Magnesium Citrate, otherwise known as “Lightening in a Bottle” or its generic label “Shit Yer Brains Out, Toot Sweet”.” and 8oz. of “CLEAR CHOICE” liquids. Take note that “CLEAR CHOICE” is not a brand name of some liquid scope aid at the Pharmacy, nor is it a beverage of high class, top shelf, quality ingredients. It is, in fact, whatever clear liquid your can tolerate and keep down after chugging said bottle of liquid lightening.
Little side story here… Not 2 minutes after chugging my “Will Soon Wish You Were Dead” in a bottle and a chaser of “clear choice”, I got a phone call from school that Ryan was sick and needed to be picked up. I walked, nay shuffled, into school carrying Cameron, the 1 year old I watch, in his car seat, praying to the Lord in heaven to not to let me A.) sneeze B.) cough or C.) shit in my pants. The nurse was busy with some whiney child and I rudely but necessarily interrupted her to tell her that just before she called I had finished off a bottle of Magnesium Citrate. Her eyes got real wide and she rushed over to me to sign Ryan out ASAP. LOL. Gotta love that lady.
We drove home, at a safe but rapid pace and about 3/4 of the way home, somewhere from deep within, a growl not unlike the hounds of hell began to crawl up from my belly. I calmly turned to Ryan, looked him dead in the eye and said “If mommy has to pull over, don’t look. OK?” By the time I got home, it was more like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and the rapture was upon us. Things started to spin. As I walked up the front lawn, lugging the baby, the front door suddenly started pulled away from me like something out of Alice in Wonderland. I started to pray, I started to moan, I started to RUN! Everything turned out ok and no animals were killed in the making of my way to the bathroom but, “Praise Jesus!!!” for five point harnesses on car seats.
Back to our “Schedule”
12pm-5pm: I need to drink AT LEAST one half gallon of clear liquids. My chosen liquids being 7Up and Gatorade. Classic, plain ole’ yellow, lemon-lime Gatorade. I like to keep it real and kick it old school, folks. That’s just how I roll. (mind you, in this house, implied death threats must be utilized to keep the minions from drinking whatever they happen to come across in the fridge) Notice how I don’t need to label the Citrate as untouchable???
5pm you must have: bullion soup. clear liquid (no limit) Jell-O (except RED)
And to that, I say… ::head tilt:: WTF?
Your thinking, SO? have some damn soup and Jell-O and STFU about it already…
Well, my friends. The paper actually reads bullion soup. and THIS, could pose a significant problem for folks that tend to be literal.
1.gold or silver considered in mass rather than in value.
2.gold or silver in the form of bars or ingots.
3.Also called bullion fringe . a thick trimming of cord covered with gold or silver thread, for decorating uniforms.
4.embroidery or lace worked with gold wire or gold or silver cords.
What they SHOULD have typed in the instructions is
bouil·lon[bool-yon, -yuhn; Fr. boo-yawn]noun
a clear, usually seasoned broth made by straining water in which beef, chicken, etc., has been cooked, or by dissolving a commercially prepared bouillon cube or cubes in hot water.
To be honest, I was struggling with the idea of having nasty beef or chicken flavored broth, but now I am at a total loss as to where I could even FIND some soup made of silver or gold ingots. I bet Trader Joes doesn’t even carry THAT! And to expound upon my dilemma even further, does it matter if I have gold or silver? What are the pros of each? Or more importantly the cons? Better yet, THE COST! I mean, the current cost per ounce for gold is $1678.45 yet for silver it is only $32.37. Holy crap. Does my insurance cover THIS??????
They are NOT making this bowel prep easy on me are they?
7pm: 8oz clear liquid and 2 Dulcolax tablets.
Um… TWO? Well, I guess someone wont be sleeping tonight. If you thought the Citrate was effective, you have never taken Dulcolax. Its concentrated lightening in a gel tablet that explodes inside you worse than Pop Rocks and Coke. Think Mentos and a soda bottle. Dear Lord, my night is going to look like an episode of MythBusters isn’t it?
Then, to top it off.. tomorrow morning at 8am I get to chug yet another bottle of “Draino for your Colon”, 8oz of a CHOICE clear liquid and TWO MORE Dulcolax tablets.
After THAT breakfast of Exploding Bowels Champions I will be NPO- Nil Per Os, or in English, nothing by mouth. Nil Per Os is a Latin medical term that to me, makes me think of nipples. Yeah, I know “You would, Heather… you would…” ::eye roll::
I will arrive for my scope at 1pm, no doubt walking like I just rode bare assed on an epileptic horse for 12 hours, wearing comfortable, loose fitting sweats to hide the bulge from the Depends and a look on my face that could be construed as lost or confused, possible both, but is really just the face of a woman who just flushed her left lung down the toilet, not 5 minutes earlier.
Then I get to wait, for about an hour, in a waiting room, full of other people who are like me, ready to kill the next person that says “Hey, How’s it going?” because although you cant, you REALLY want to answer with
“How’s it going? HOW’S IT GOING??? IT WONT FUCKING STOP GOING! THAT’S HOW ITS GOING!!!!!”
And after the last 24 hours, its really won’t be social etiquette that stops you from answering that way but the fact that if you exert that much pressure to raise your voice, there will be a “Clean up in Aisle 5, Irv!” Aisle 5 meaning, yes, your pants.
And while you wait and pray the cork you stuffed in your ass doesn’t dislodge, you watch the door where all the patients finished with their procedures exit. Are they limping? Sobbing gently into tissues? Possibly even being carried out by paramedics?
And then..it will happen. My name will get called. I will kiss Joe goodbye then wave weakly as a nurse escorts me into the door that ironically reads “EXIT ONLY”.
Yes, THIS is exactly how my brain works. Scary isn’t it?
live, love and laugh, at least until the propafol wears off!