Use a straw

Daunting isn’t a word I have ever equated with cleansing my bowels. It is now. After weeks of anxiety, days of pre-prep prep, and eliminating anything red, purple or blue from my diet — God bless the USA! — the “day before your procedure” has arrived at last.

And by procedure, I mean the dreaded colonoscopy. 

Up until this day, I’ve avoided high-fiber foods, stopped eating raw vegetables (or any with seeds), corn, popcorn, nuts and anything else remotely resembling a seed.

Sunday’s menu? NO SOLID FOOD. (They love to use ALL CAPS in the instructions. As if “no solid food” is somehow less disheartening.) Clear liquids. As in, black coffee, lime Jell-O, chicken broth, plenty of water and popsicles without pulp.

Even my Noom weight-loss app can’t make sense of this past week.

“Have you logged a meal, Jennifer, or are you on yet another freakin’ trip to Florida?” Noom this. 

It’s been exactly 10 years since my last colonoscopy, so my memory of it is, well, murky. Apparently, a lot has changed in a decade, and not just the unnecessary proliferation of more assholes. (See what I did there?)

Ten years ago, I was 53. Fewer aches and pains, newly retired and yet to experience what a resting heart rate of 130 feels like while in the throes of A-Fib. (For me, mostly sweaty.)

Mom was right: You never know what awaits you in life — unless it’s a Monday in May and you’re getting a fiber-optic colonoscopy probe inserted into your rectum and large intestine to view your lower gastrointestinal tract.

Make some popcorn. Oh, never mind. Seeds.

Seems colonoscopy preparation is big business, especially if you’re too lazy to buy the darn stuff yourself and have the bulky package delivered to your door by a grinning mail carrier.

“Have a blessed day,” she said two weeks ago with a knowing wink.

The pre-packaged prep even provides individually wrapped aloe “flushable” wipes, a box of “complimentary” lime Jell-O and several packets of instant chicken bouillon. How nice of them to spring for those.

And away we go:

Sunday 3 p.m. – Time for my first dose of bisacodyl gentle laxative pills. They’re like Dulcolax, only more expensive, part of the colonoscopy preparation package, which cost $47 ($8.95 retail). It’s keeping my gastroenterologist’s pool heated.

3:15 p.m. – I swear I feel a tummy tremor. Already? Perhaps it’s just hunger. I laugh to myself thinking about that gross-out scene in the “Bridesmaids” movie when all but one gets food poisoning. The hilarious Megan character says, “Look away. What did we eat?! The sink’s a goner. It’s comin’ outta me like lava!” Melissa McCarthy at her finest.

4:27 p.m. – I hear a “grrrrowl.” Most definitely not a hunger pang. My sweatpants are no longer loose. Let’s get ready to rumble.

5 p.m. – Good grief. That was a close one. Even Maddie looked at me like, for goodness’ sake, just go outside, will ya?

5:30 – Oh hella no. It’s happening again. I don’t EVER take laxatives, so my poor bowels are looser than a goose on a par-3 pasture. They’re freaking out. Run! Gang way! Thar she blows!

Aside: Nowhere in the instructions does it say that in all likelihood, and without a moment’s notice, you will shat yourself. NOWHERE.

While I’m waiting for the next round in this continuing drama, I decide to throw in a smallish load of laundry with the, um, sweatpants, dirty car rags and soiled garden gloves. Again, the 15-year-old deaf dog’s remarkably tuned into anything malodorous.

“By chance is there an infant living with us?” she queries.

6 p.m. – Time to “mix the ENTIRE bottle of powdered ICKY stuff with the 64 ounces of chilled Gatorade drink” in a pitcher that’s already spilled TWICE in my nice clean fridge from “someone” closing the door too hard. (Me.) Drink 8 ounces of solution every 15 minutes until you’ve consumed half of said pitcher. That’s 32 ounces. NO CHEATING. Licking fridge spillage doesn’t count. You must fill your glass. Because I know how to live, I select a mini-Corona Light beer glass to make this more fun. It isn’t. 

6:15 p.m. – Some tips from Emily Wilson, my animated (as in cartoonish) prep adviser on the YouTube video I received in a cheery text:

1. Use a straw. 
2. Suck on mints.
3. Stay close to a bathroom.

Nothing gets by Emily, bless her heart! (I would have named her Catherine Crapper.)

My personal tip: Consider #3 to be #1 when you gotta go #2.

8 p.m. – Time for two more cute orange bisacodyl gentle laxative tablets. How can something so small and gentle wreak such … internal havoc?

8:05 p.m. – I was just advised to set up shop in a bathroom. It wasn’t Madison.

Monday 12:01 a.m. – Midnight? Seriously? Yes. Time to drink the rest of that yummy Gatorade solution. An 8-ounce glass every 15 minutes until it’s gone. Or you are.

7:20 a.m. Arrival time – The intake and prep nurses, custodian and a bearded guy in a Lions hoodie asked about everything I’d eaten since birth. Then right before she injected the propofol sedative into my IV to make me go nighty-night, the anesthesiologist said: “And what are you having done today, Jennifer?”

Me: “NOT heart surgery.”

She laughed and assured me that was the wrong end of her expertise. Fade to black. 

Here’s what I can tell you about the actual procedure: Absolutely nothing.

Now I know why I couldn’t remember squat from 10 years ago. 

Suddenly, I was awakened by the sound of Reb’s sweet voice in the recovery room. “You’re farting. A lot. Honeymoon’s over. You did great. Piece of cake.”

(Cake? Who has cake?)

She added that Dr. Donat (Donuts? Who has donuts?) said everything looked fine, showing her detailed color images of my squeaky-clean colon, free of polyps, bowel issues or questionable growths.

That is, aside from mild diverticulitis and a Milk Dud I had consumed at a “Jaws” matinee in 1975. (That line was for Kelly. You’re welcome.)

Doc says he won’t need to see me ever again. OK, in another 10 years. It’s a date, Donat.

Regular readers of this blog know we live in a “quad,” a house with four levels — and no first-floor bathroom. This may be the best argument yet to have one installed ASAP, say, before Rebecca starts her colonoscopy prep … TOMORROW.

Quick, call that handsome handyman!

I’ll start the laundry.