COWORKER: I just spent
three hours in a meeting. That’s three
hours of my life I’ll never get back.
ME: I’ll give you
three hours of my life. You can have
three hours of my next colonoscopy prep.
* * *
* * *
*
A friend of mine calls me
up the other day. He needs to ask me for
a favor, but, before asking for this favor, he prefaces his request by listing
off a litany of things he has done for me in the past. He starts with recent history and begins to
work his way backward. Before he can
retrace our shared history to the kids’ soccer field days, I interrupt him.
What is it?
What favor could possibly be so crazy-important that my entire existence
has to be rehashed in a plus-minus column?
I begin to panic. I am really and truly hoping that this favor
doesn’t involve my limited closet space, a green card, or anything that
requires me to shave my legs.
Instead, his request is
almost apologetic when he finally comes around to it. “Will you drive me to my colonoscopy this
summer?”
Before anyone makes poop
jokes, I have two things to say about colonoscopies. First of all, they’re wicked important. Second of all, it’s the best damn sleep you’ll
ever be blessed enough to have.
I hate anesthesia; it makes
me vomit, generally speaking. However, when
I had my charming colonoscopy experience several years ago, the
anesthesiologist gave me some unbelievable stuff. It starts with a twinkling around the edges
of the vision field, almost like sparkling stars coming together to form a
border around the frame of impending blackness.
The wake up is easy and absolutely without complications. Well, except for the realization that I was
suddenly munching on animal cookies and sipping ginger ale without any
recollection whatsoever of obtaining them.
Yup, after having a
colonoscopy, it is easy to understand why Michael Jackson was addicted to
Propofol. That damn drug is amazing.
The colonoscopy prep? Not so amazing. I should restate that: The prep is amazing but not in a positive
way. Comedian Billy Connolly has a
hysterical routine about colonoscopy prep, and it is as hilarious as it is
dead-on accurate. Colonoscopy prep is
when you do not want to laugh because if you do, you’ll mess your pants. This fact along with my friend’s solemn
request sends me into a fit of giggles.
My friend, sheepishly
waiting on the distant end of a cell phone for my answer, is not nearly as
amused as am I. He is a chicken, perhaps
more of an ostrich with its head in the sand, when it comes to medical
procedures. I’m not entirely certain he
could survive a dislocated finger being reset, something I’ve been known to do (both the injuring and the readjusting)
while playing Frisbee at school field day or while exercising at the gym.
“Have you ever had a
colonoscopy?” I ask him.
“No.” He pauses then adds, “I should be fine with
the prep, though. It’s good to clean the
system out every now and again.”
This is true. But, when one does this extensive a
clean-out, it is best to be close to facilities at all times. I’ve already decided that my next colonoscopy
needs to be closer to home, and I only went two towns away. Potty-availability is crucial. My next question is critical to my sanity and
to the Scotch-Guarded seats in my car.
“Where are you having this
done?”
Following the asking of
the question and right before I hear the answer, I say a little prayer. Remember that confessional I told you I
avoided the other day? I probably shouldn’t
have passed on that golden opportunity.
“In Stoneham,” he tells
me, as if this information is not enough to give anyone, especially someone
with whom you are only casually acquainted, a major fucking heart attack. Stoneham is at least three very long towns
away down a road full of traffic lights.
It is easily a forty minute drive.
The other option is the morning commute down gridlocked route 93, the major access
to Boston.
I start imagining ways to
rig garbage bags onto my car seats without offending my friend. “Stoneham,” I repeat, spending a little too
much time emphasizing the long o sound. “Um,
that’s kind of a long drive. Can you
book anything closer?”
I suspect that my friend
thinks I might be jockeying for gas money.
This is not true in the slightest.
He whines a little, like men tend to, and I quickly explain myself. “Let’s just say that you’re not going to make
it between point A and point B without making about twenty pit stops.”
“It’s all right,” he
reasons. “There are plenty of places to
stop along route 28.”
This is true. But, making it from the street to the parking
lot, to the restaurant, to the bathroom, into the stall in time – This whole
scenario presents a series of possible disasters. I churn these devious possibilities through
my nasty little brain and giggle some more.
This is going to be hilarious, I decide. Hil-fucking-larious.
“Of COURSE I will drive
you to your colonoscopy!” Then I tag on,
“And you can take me to lunch afterward.”
“Oh, no. I won’t be able to eat lunch after that,” he
responds.
Again, has he ever had a colonoscopy? No.
“Afterward you’ll feel
terrific,” I assure him. “Clean as a
whistle. You won’t be able to shit for
days.”
Part of me is just (forgive
the expression) talking out of my ass.
It has been a few years since I’ve done this drill myself, so I don’t
know what happens anymore. I do, though,
remember being ravenously hungry and eating everything within a fifteen yard radius
without suffering any ill effects.
And the Propofol. Any time that I wake up from anesthesia
without puking is cause celebre. Of course, so is keeping stains off the car
seats, but that’s another issue entirely.
