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Saturday, May 5, 2012

So I had my second colonoscopy.

So I had my second colonoscopy. If you're not old enough to have this routine screening, you have a treat waiting. The procedure itself is no big deal. It's the prep that's the attention getter. Last time, I took the little pills. This time, I received the industrial strength Epsom salts, which tastes horrible. I expressed a preference for the potential kidney damage from the pills, but my words fell on deaf ears.

The procedure is done under anesthesia so they don't have to listen to me rattle along. The prep is done alone so the rest of the world doesn't have to listen to me swear for five hours. Well, the neighbor had to listen, but he has moved away now.

To assist in helping everyone understand this Great Mystery of the Old Fart, I live tweeted the prep. Here you do, in chronological order. You are warned.

As part of our punishment for living too long, the medical establishment requires a periodic shoving of rubber hoses up our butts.

Yes, Grandpa is headed back in for his second colonoscopy. 

Apparently, I was such a delight the first time that they want a second go, here some five years later.

Of course, there's way more too it than the moment of anesthesia. Oh yes, we have the evening before. The Prep.

I'm live tweeting this glory. Brace yourself.

Towards 4 P.M. Thursday, I slammed down a fist full of Ducolax with a pint of water. The joy begins soon.

And Desitin. Lots of Desitin.

On the way home, I stopped at Food Lion for some sugar-free, flavored, carbonated water.

12 liters. I'll drink a lot of that in the next 12 hours or so.

6 P. M. I open the bowel prep kit. This cannot end well. I'm thinking a better name is in order. Maybe I'll call the company later.

I have a six ounce bottle of sulfate of sodium, potassium, and magnesium that I'll mix with water to 16 ounces.

I'm also starving. That feeling will end soon, I expect.

Why do I think I'll be cursing the periodic chart before this is over?

A bushel of Ruffles would work well about now. With onion dip. Lots of onion dip.

There's a safety seal on the bowl prep solution bottle. I feel so warm and secure.

You might think they'd do something to make this crap taste better.

The stuffed jalapenos from last week had the necessary effect and tasted a whole sight better.

It took 20 minutes to swallow those 16 ounces. Someone should do the math.

Working on the additional fluid drinking now. Rum would work well here.

I'm thinking now the bowel prep salts improved the flavor of the sugar-free, flavored, carbonated water.

There is a freakin' magnesium bot on Twitter. I have nothing left to be excited over.

I'm also thinking we're going to need some verbal code here very soon, lest I rile some delicate ears.

6:38 P.M. And here we go.

And again.

Do you suppose the physicians are in cahoots with the water company?

I wonder how this might happen in a world without running water and indoor plumbing.

And again. The orchid on the towel rack has not yet complained.

I hope it'll be okay if I sit on this towel for the next while.

Again. I'm not going to be able to count this fast. Maybe someone could come over with a chalk board or something.

It would be better if I didn't sneeze again for a day or so.

And all but one common adverse reaction is in place. No puking yet. I miss all the fun.

Fun Fact: The total volume of liquid required for colon cleansing is three quarts. Reminds me of when I was slinging chitlins.

Do you suppose an air fern would help with the atmosphere in here?

These Tony Gurley political ads are worse than this colonoscopy prep. And more nauseating.

A 24-hour plumber from the UK has started following me. This is just too surreal for me to engage tonight.

And there's one of those hateful, Bible-filled pro-amendment ads. I think I might puke now.

I wonder if they'll just burn this building tomorrow while I'm out.

Oh, dear God. I have another bottle of that mess to drink. And not a drop of rum in the house.

The second bottle tastes no better than the first. I was born to suffer. So was my neighbor having to listen to all this.

This bowel prep mess would work a whole lot better as a rum mixer.

Fun Fact: This bowel prep is contraindicated in the event that you have a toxic megacolon. Whodathunkit?

Here I go again. Cramping better than a body has a right to. Sing along, children.

And to think I'm paying good money for all this ribaldry.

A large pan of lasagna would really hit the spot right now.

A large pan of lasagna would really hit the spot right now.

Come to think of it, that'd be a gold mine. Lasagna-flavored (and textured) colonoscopy prep.

I wonder how the bowel prep would have done blended as a frozen margarita.

I might never drink sugar-free, flavored, carbonated water again.

9:30. Probably one of the most moving events of my life.

And so we retire briefly for the evening.

Somehow, I managed to survive the night. Haven't slept on a towel like that since early college.

You'd think they'd offer something useful such as liposuction while the colonoscopy is going on.

We can credit Desitin for the continuation of the Human Species.

I suppose I should take a shower or something before going to the clinic. A drink would be better.

With this much magnesium and colonoscopy prep in my system, these Tony Gurley ads should be a easier to take. But no. They remain abominations.

And that is that. The ribaldry and colonoscopy are over. Laundry is about done. Sushi is one hour away.

The main event is tweetless. Even if they had let me keep my phone, I doubt the cell signal would have penetrated the building as it's filled with electronic mess. Besides, the real WiFi was locked down and the public WiFi was off. 

Nonetheless, I could not have asked for better treatment while I was there, though I could have asked for certified nurses, but there were none. (They were probably all over at the hospital in a concerted effort to avoid me.) 

My only complaint is that they didn't offer a doggie bag for the Proponol. I could make good use of some milk of amnesia those nights when sleep is slow about coming, and even slower about staying. 

They found nothing of consequence except sign that I have taken too many NSAID tablets for my ancient feets, and they used that excuse to make me return in five years, instead of ten. More likely, the doc has a crush on my sweet rumpus. Yeah, right. 

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