I recently had a camera shoved up my butt. And no, it wasn’t your typical Saturday night at the Power Exchange Kink Club up in the city.
See, I turned 50 last year. And when I went in for my annual physical my Doctor said: “Happy Birthday!” And then he just smiled and smiled and smiled.
Yes, it was time for a visual tour of the alimentary canal.
But here’s the thing. The colonoscopy aint really no thang. Its just a 4 dimensional wedgie. The real action is in the Preparation beforehand.
The day before the procedure I was put on a “clear liquid” regime. Now let’s define that in detail.
Here is what you can ingest on this diet:
- Clear Broth, which is basically hot water.
- Plain gelatin, which is gummy water.
- Popsicles, as long as they are not purple or red, and as long as they contain no fruit, pulp, sugar or anything of a “particulate nature”. So…..frozen water.
The only other thing that is clear and liquid is hand sanitizer, and eating that gets old real fast.
So basically you are having a well-hydrated fast for 24 hours, which is not a world ending cataclysm, unless, like me, you work in a freakin’ GROCERY STORE.
|Insert "Anal" joke here.|
With a hot bar.
Which is featuring veggie pot pies that day.
I mean, even at a half-century old you are occasionally allowed to proclaim “That’s just not fair!” to the cosmic void.
And if you listen very hard, you can hear your own echoes return from the galactic Keep, and they will sound so very much like laughter.
Because the veggie pot pie topped with a tangy cheese sauce made from pure Mockery was not the worst fact of that workday. Oh no. The worst was that on a day when I could do nothing but run water through my pipes, the city decided to stop that very thing at the water main outside of my store, meaning that all the restrooms were closed.
Oh…..shit. To pee or not to pee!
(And yes, that really happened.)
I was not my usual sparkly self that day. At closing my Team Mates wished me well. “Hope it all goes smoothly!” “Hope it all comes out okay!” “Don’t take any crap!”
I waddled home, whimpering, only to be faced with the grim fact that I would now have to ingest 16 ounces of a prescription level laxative. Woo-hoo, middle-aged adventures!
I mixed it up, added the lukewarm water and sat on the couch while Admiral Karen laughed at me and took pictures.
I mean, all of my over-50 friends had warned me about this stuff, but mere words can not begin to describe what it’s like to drink Movi-Prep.
But I’ll take a stab at it:
Imagine what all the corruption in the world would taste like. All of the horror, the sin, the vice, the negative thoughts and actions of 7 billion souls. Now distill that down by running it through an old, wet buffalo. Then take that essence and stir it into a pitcher half-full of moldy dog shit and newborn baby vomit.
And then add menthol.
Movi-Prep is like drinking mentholated wet buffalo Death.
And you can’t just chug it. Oh no. Blasphemy on this scale must be savored, by ingesting 4 ounces every 15 minutes over the course of an hour.
16 ounces in 60 minutes felt like 16 gallons in 60 lifetimes.
And we’re watching hockey, which features nothing but pizza commercials.
After the first 4 ounces I could do nothing but listen to my brain trying to talk my taste buds out of packing their little glands and walking off the job.
After round 2, I heard rumblings from my innards. And not like those politely amusing stomach growls you get from time to time. No, Movi-Prep is like liquid C-4 going off in your bowels.
After the 3rd four-ounce gulp I could feel that things were On the Move. And let me be clear about how weird that was: I was feeling things moving in my intestines. And we don’t have any feelings in our intestines. And that’s weird.
And after I polished off the last of the nitro it was - Oh My God - suddenly off to the throne room.
Holy SHIT. More movements than Beethoven’s 5th Symphony. I had to use the plunger.
(And yes, that really happened.)
Next morning, after dreams of sitting in a veggie pot pie the size of a hot tub, it was time for round two of drinking Satan’s jock sweat.
For the record, on the morning of Clear Liquid-just-drink-fucking-water-diet day I weighed 226 pounds. 14 hours later, just before the first round of dead buffalo cocktail, I was down to 224. Which reminds me of that Onion headline: “I really lost 34 pounds in 15 days - and died!”
The next morning, after the out-of-body experience of having C4 going off in my bowels, I was down to 220.5. I drank round two at 8am, And at 1pm, after not eating or drinking anything all morning, I was down to 218.5
So when somebody says you are full of shit, they’re talking about 7.5 pounds, adjusted for size, weight, gender and amount of a dick you have recently been.
Hunger is literally not for the faint of heart. But the pangs come and go. The 'not drinking anything' though - that consistently sucks.
But I had done it. I had drained the alimentary canal. I was completely empty of food sludge. Clean as a whistle. What kind of whistle? Well, I learned that in this condition, when I bend over naked in a stiff breeze my butt will play a C-minor chord.
Me and Beethoven’s 5th, baby.
By 3pm, we were in the Hospital waiting room. I was spacey, grumpy and a whole lot colder than I should have been. Food sounded wonderful - I would have eaten that dead wet buffalo at that point - but the lack of water, even for 7 hours was putting my body into end-game crisis mode. Fascinating.
|The last few hours were rough, I guess.|
I mean, for all of our sophistication and civilization, homo sapiens sapiens is an embarrassingly fragile species. Cicadas? Just dig a hole, bury yourself alive and wait for 17 years. Humans? One shift without our sippy cup and we freakin’ fall apart.
Anyway, I get into the prep room and change into the gown. The one that opens in the back. Dr. Khademi was curt and professional, but also seemed a tad weary. I was his last colonoscopy of the day - the headliner! And also his 20th. Think about that.
Dr. Khademi had seen more butts that day that an audience member at the Thunder Down Under revue.
He had penetrated more assholes than a month of pornstars.
|I'm up next, apparently.|
In the operating room the anesthesiologist added a new bag to my I.V., Dr. Khademi asked me to turn on my side -
- and I woke up a half hour later back in the prep room. Whoa. Dude. What was that stuff? I think in his spare time my anesthesiologist likes to kill butterflies with a hammer. I never got the chance to be grossed out by watching the inside of my own colon. I missed the boat tour of my canal!
I was putting my shirt and shoes back on when Dr. Khademi strolled by. “We didn’t find anything”, he said grumpily, and walked away.
Which is of course, the entire goal. Live your life so that your doctors are bored with you. Cuz you don’t want them to find you interesting.
|Me and Stacy, your standard-issue totally|
Anyway, Admiral Karen drove me home, I ordered many pizza pies, DUH, and then I hosted a Board Meeting for the Non-Profit that I volunteer for. 90 minutes after coming out of surgery.
Now I didn’t have a wound, or a ‘site’ (my butt felt fine) and my insides were still shiny and clean. But the procedure does leave something behind. Something very big and unwelcome in your guts: Air. Lots and lots of air. Lke, a cubic foot of it.
They pump that in with an air compressor, blowing your bowels up like the worlds most hideous balloon, and then they wake you up and send you home. BWA-HA-HA!
So, I’m sitting in the Rumpus Room, trying to host this Board meeting, when my body decides that has had quite enough of this insufflation, and elects to move me to sudden, massive deflation.
And I began farting through every orifice of my body. I was a helpless, human whoopee cushion. Then a pause, as I could feel my colon rearranging its loops, (more bizarre than painful) until a new segment of now compressed air had been liberated.
And then burps like you just squeezed a cane toad. BBRRRAAAAWWWPPP!!
Luckily the Board of Community Seed is composed of good friends of mine with the collective sense of humor of a 14 year old boy.
|I may get over that taste in 10 years.|
But here’s the thing: I was a firehose of flatus; a bazooka of burps - and yet: No smell, and no taste. Remember, clean as a Cm whistle!
And hopefully when I do this all over again in 10 years they'll have a non-Menthol version of that stuff. BLECH.
P.S. The day after, was I craving veggie pot pie? Nope. What my body was hungry for was yogurt. Time to repopulate the canal!
(Pics from the Author and from a totally laughing Admiral Karen.)