MY SISTER'S COLONOSCOPY - PART 2: THE BITTERSWEET END

The worst part of the colonoscopy preamble is the ride to the medical facility, which is usually far from one's own toilet.  Really, the professionals should allow people to stay at the facility the night before to prevent accidents of the butt kind while on the way from home to office.  To be frank, the prep should be intravenous because drinking that much liquid, especially something as horrifying as lemon-lime Gatorade, should be prevented by the Geneva Convention.

My sister, who sails through her prep, also sails through the thirty-five minute ride from her house to the medical center.  We park right out front (we are amongst the early clientele), and walk at a regular pace to the lobby.  Excellent, all we need to do is find the elevators.  But, no; my sister says, "It's only on the fourth floor.  Let's take the stairs."

Anyone who knows anything at all about industrial buildings also knows that the fourth floor is more like the eighth floor because the stairs are double -- halfway up (which is normally all the way up in a house) there is a landing between floors as we prepare to ascend to the next level.  I fear that by the time we make it to Floor #4, we will need our eardrums to pop so we can adjust to the altitude.

As we reach each landing, there is a sign next to each door leading to the offices.  At first I believe that these signs are low oxygen warnings as we near the peak of the Everest of office buildings.  I am huffing and puffing worse than the Big Bad Wolf by the time we reach floor #3.

This is where I notice the sign, as does my sister, and pause to actually read it.  Floor #3.  "... to exit discharge."

Say, what?  I'm not sure anyone heading into a colonoscopy needs to be reminded of exit discharge, especially someone who has done the full prep AND opted for the stairs.  This thought hits me right about the time that I realize I am walking behind my sister.  I rush by her on the stairs.  After all, if there's any exit discharge, I don't want to be the unwelcome recipient.

I make myself comfortable in the waiting room, complete with puzzles and a book and my cell phone, and wave my sister goodbye as she is led into the abyss, and I remain content there until someone near me is talking loudly.  It sounds like he or she is watching a movie.  A medical movie.  Talking loudly about polyps and colons and IBD and diarrhea, and I'm thinking, "Ugh, dude, really -- I haven't even had breakfast yet."  I finally glance up to see who would be so rude as to listen to something about colonoscopies before his or her procedure.

Um, yeah, no.  It's not a patient at all; it's the television.  The television is broadcasting an entire spiel as to the inner workings of the Human Poop Chute.  Honestly, if people don't know what they're in for after that prep, they don't deserve a colonoscopy; they're obviously still full of shit.

One word, however, keeps creeping into the noise that has now taken over the entire room like a stale fart: Rectum.  My rectum, your rectum, the rectum of your mailman.  Apparently it's all fair game around the proctology department.  Rectum, rectum, rectum!  I have flashbacks of my baby brother (who is by now quite far from his baby days) rejoicing with the mantra, "Rectum?!  Damn near killed 'um!"

By the time my sister hits recovery, the propofol is already wearing off.  I've missed the fun part where she babbles about things like flames in her veins or getting purple stickers or making unbelievable goalie saves during an imaginary sporting event (all things my own kids did coming out of wisdom tooth surgery).  My sister is coherent and looking rather rested.  I, on the other hand, am a wreck from hearing the television telling me over and over again how my colon is going to kill me and has had it planned for decades now, probably with my stomach and ovaries helping just for giggles.

After her "exit discharge," we go to breakfast at a diner across the street from the medical office (a strategic location), and my sister is still a little slow from the whole colonoscopy because I am able to steal the check right out of the waitress's hand just as the paper is passing between her right hand and my sister's right hand.  I'm like Cain in Kung Fu: Snatch this pebble from my palm... then you will be ready, Grasshopper (or whatever he mumbles in the introduction).

Finally, though, my Super-Sister's armor cracks, or, rather, butt-cracks, when she decides we should stop at Joann Fabrics on the way home.  As we reach the back of the store and see the restroom sign, my sister makes a bee-line for the one-seater.  Luckily, no one else is in the back of the store to witness the audio tail end of her tale end from her tail-end.

"Oh my gosh," she says as she stumbles from the bathroom, "I hope no one could hear that." No, nope, no one ... except that the loudspeaker announced a possible earthquake.  All the children ran screaming from the building due to loud noises through the wall.  Fukushima thought it had reached the East Coast.  Okay, truth be told, I've had belches that made more noise.

In true sisterly fashion, it is my job to kick her when she's down, correct her when she's wrong, and make her laugh so hard that she might poop or pee herself.  I believe it's written directly into the Sibling Code, which, of course, I'll follow to the bittersweet end.  Just to prove it is so, when we get back to her house and play a game of Quiddler, I make sure that I finish one round with the word of the day: B-O-W-E-L.