I was due for a colonscopy when I turned fifty, but I disregarded it as a crappy idea. Two years later, The 52/52 Project gave me a little kick in the ass, and I added “colonscopy” to the list. Time to get this behind me.
The afternoon before my scheduled appointment, the office
called, saying they’d have to pull the plug. Nothing was running as
planned. I was shit out of luck.
“Butt wait,” they said. Their schedule wasn’t totally backed-up. Just two weeks later, they promised to get me in there.
It was a heavy load I’d been carrying the past two years, and it seemed time to finally relieve myself.
Still, I heard the cleansing preparation was a pain in the ass. I eyed
the prescription drink which would get the whole process moving. I
shrugged and murmured, “Bottoms-up.”
But considering what followed, the nasty ass drink was only a drop in the bucket.
The rest of the evening went down the drain. It wasn’t a straight
fifteen-hour stretch of uncomfortable inconvenience. It just came in
I stomached the events of that night, which continued into early morning, with a fair amount of grumbling.
The colonoscopy itself was a breeze though. In no time at all, we were in and out of there.
A bit of propofol (Michael Jackson’s drug of choice) in my IV, and I
quickly found myself in no position to retaliate. I guess I managed to
turn the other cheek.
Next thing I knew, I was awake. I
learned they found a polyp, which they successfully nipped in the bud. I
was told I simply needed to eliminate some of the air that was pumped
into my stomach before I could be discharged. They quickly sent me on my
way, so apparently I passed that, too.
At the tail-end of the experience, I have to say it was much a doo-doo about nothing.
And next time I’m told I need a colonoscopy, I won’t be so quick to poo-poo the idea.
Was I too cheeky here? Has my writing totally gone down the crapper? Can you resist a bad pun?