How I Got My Second Colonoscopy

This story is not for the squeamish. I'll say that right up front, or behind, as the case may be.

I guess colonospopies and their associated stories never are for those who can't take the sight of a little gore...or poop...as the case may be.

Wow, this is already starting off wrong.

My story, I'm afraid, will be a little more, shall we say, revealing than most. Not because I'm taking advantage of the situation, either.

My journey to a colonoscopy started when my dad was diagnosed with colorectal cancer back in 1999. It was just a few short months before the birth of my first child, and it was a world-crashing experience. He'd always been afraid of getting cancer, so much so that he didn't want me to build him a brick barbecue pit in the backyard. He was afraid the charcoal would give him cancer. Fortunately, it didn't. Unfortunately, something else did.

Thereafter, my siblings and I were always afraid enough of that type of cancer that we have all gone through the seemingly endless preps for screenings. For those of you who make up the great unwashed/uneducated, let me give you a heads up on what's involved.

For my first colonoscopy I had to drink some sort of really nasty-tasting liquid that, once inside my body, gave me what dad used to call Locksmith's Disease - every few minutes I was making a bolt for the bathroom door. This started after work at about 5pm and lasted ALL NIGHT LONG.

The next morning, we went to the hospital, they put an IV into me and gave me the best nap of my life while they fiddled around with my derierre.

This time, however, I'd gone to a new doctor who didn't use the liquids. He, instead, used horse pills.

The first dose was 12 of these nasty pills all taken with a "sip" of water. You're supposed to drink 16 ounces of water with these awful things, but I had at least 32 if not more. They simply would not go down.

Turns out they wouldn't stay down, either, but that part's still in the future attractions. Hold tight.

No more than 30 minutes after swallowing those 12 pills did I start to feel the effects. "Run to the bathroom!" my inner child demanded. So run I did, and glad of it.

Here's where those of you who are a little squeamish should stop reading. Fair warning. It doesn't get any better if you keep going.

To put it bluntly, it was straight liquid.

Like turning on a faucet.

I honestly didn't know I could hold that much. But it kept coming and coming and coming.

When it finally decided it was finished, I went back downstairs and sat on the couch. Within 30 seconds I was again running up the stairs while unbuckling my belt, unbuttoning my fly and upzipping.

Just in time.

I will spare you the gory details. Suffice it to say it was like this for the next three hours or so. By the time it had ended I was hot and sweaty from running up the stairs, and pretty sore behind.

Good thing our son gave me a bidet for Christmas one year. That thing really came in handy.

At 2:30AM the day of the procedure I had to get up and take 12 more of those awful tablets, only to endure nausea and the squirts all over again.

Except this time, the nausea was worse.

I last got vomiting sick on December 31, 1999. Y2K. I believe it was the flu, or something akin to it, and I hadn't been sick since. I guess, to be more honest about it, I hadn't thrown up since that day.

Eight thousand one hundred and seventy-five days. Twenty-two years, four months and nineteen days. One of the longest vomit streaks in history. Eight years longer than Seinfeld's streak of 14 years.

Beginner.

Pretender.

Wannabe.

But there it was. Twelve nasty pills working together to get me to poop also forcing me to throw up. A lot.

Makes me want to wretch just thinking about it.

I didn't go back to bed that night, afraid what the bed might look like when I awoke. My appointment at the surgical center was for 6:30AM. I was dressed and ready to go by 4.

When my wife and I got there I was still making those bolts for the bathroom, but it had subsided a little bit. The only thing I could think of was that they were going to stick that scope in there and were going to get a face-full of something else. But I'd be asleep, so what did I care?

The nurse finally came and took me back. She put an IV in my arm and I laid there in the gown that no self-respecting person would ever wear. Open in the rear for easy access, I suppose.

When they finally wheeled me back into the OR, I was ready for the blankness. That's what I've come to call this best-ever nap. The blankness. It's just a period in my life I don't remember. My memory bank is blank. Not black. Just blank.

The anesthesiologist stuck the needle in my IV and squeezed.

Nothing.

I expected to enter the blankness after counting to 2, but no. No blankness. Just an anesthesiologist looking at me like I had horns.

And then it happened.

Please make no mistake. I'm the only one who touches my fanny. I realize that the doctor has to while I'm in the blankness, but that's it. NOBODY else.

Except today.

Without warning I felt a cold I can't describe. It was at the end of a finger that ran itself right through downtown Tushy Town.

In other words, the doctor put some butt lube on his finger and rubbed it where the sun has never shined.

And I was still awake.

Well, you can imagine that I did a little left-side-lying dance on that gurney. You would, too, if you'd felt what I felt.

"Oh! I'm sorry," he exclaimed. "Patients are usually already asleep when I come into the room."

I guess patients aren't supposed to move when he does that. That's what probably tipped him off.

And then it hit me.

The blankness.

The next thing I remember was my wife saying my name like I'd been gone for a long trip. I couldn't figure out where I was, until I did.

I laid there for a few minutes trying to gather my thoughts. The IV was gone and I was still lying on my left side. Thankfully someone had covered up my booty with a blanket.

And then the doctor came in and said the news was good. No polyps, no cancer, nothing bad.

"Do you have any questions?" he asked.

"I only have two," I said.

"Ok, shoot."

I looked him straight in the eye and said, "What the heck, man?"

He smiled like he knew that question was coming. "Yea, very sorry about that. I hardly ever come into the OR until the patient is asleep. They didn't tell me. I totally apologize for that."

Like that made up for it. Sometimes sorry doesn't cut it, man.

So, I rolled onto my back and smiled myself.

"What's your second question?" he said.

"I come from a pretty religious family," I retorted. "You know you're going to have to marry me now, right?"