I was feeling brave, daring and a little bit stupid on the morning of my procedure. I was still squirting rocket fuel from my butt (prior to starting part 2 of the prep) but it was definitely waning and I needed to send a few packages in the mail.
After dropping off the kids at school (not a metaphor for pooping, I really did take my kids to school) I picked up a box of packages at home and drove to the post office, arriving just shortly before their 9AM opening.
This was the daring part of my day. The thing about the Golightly (aside from not actually going lightly) is that when you realize it's time to GO, it's TIME TO GO and you better be less than ten feet away from a toilet or an outhouse, or hell even a hole in the ground.
I really needed to mail these packages out and I thought if I got to the post office before they opened I'd be in and out before lightning struck. When I got there, about 100 other people had the same idea. So I got in line, practiced my ass-kegels and hoped for the best.
I had a "I'm going to bail on this" plan in mind. If I didn't get to the front door by 9:30 I would be outta there, but if I made it there then I was sure I'd get my packages mailed and be home A) in time to shart and B) by 10AM so I could finish that delicious and well prepared solution just waiting for me in the fridge.
I don't know if you've ever stood in line WITH GRAVITY pulling at your poop WHILE juggling a LARGE BOX FULL of packages to mail ON AN EMPTY STOMACH, but I wouldn't recommend it.
The guy in front of me was tweeting on his phone (no doubt about the alien stirring inside the woman in line behind him) and the guy behind me, I think, wished he WASN'T "behind" me, based on the noises my guts were making.
On the plus side, I didn't fart, because, well, when you've had Golightly you NEVER. TRUST. A. FART.
At 9:27AM I made it to the front door and I knew at that point I wasn't going anywhere until my packages were posted. I would like to give a shout out to the Beaverton post office: you guys freaking ROCK. I was done by 9:50AM and made it home by 10.
They were moving really fast (kind of like my poop) and I am glad I stuck it out. That experience folks, waiting for 55 minutes at the Post Office, was the highlight of my day.
I certainly need not provide additional details about my "prep" experience, the video from yesterday and my descriptions really capture the moment well. I'll fast forward to the experience in the clinic because I need to get a lot off my chest and this seems like the appropriate place to do it. As you may or may not know this blog started as a recommendation from my therapist.
My check in time was 2:40PM. Like a good patient I got there at 2:30. They brought me back closer to 3. No biggie, I'm just ravenously hungry and peeing like a freaking race horse, because in addition to pounding down drano in 8OZ increments every ten minutes you are also expected to drink twice as much water as you normally do. I looked like I was about 3 months pregnant.
I had to put on the hospital gown with these sexy little non-slip socks. And I mean SEX-Y. They left me with a blanket thank GOD because the gown barely covered up my lady business (when you're 6 feet tall you need more than a pediatric sized gown, jussayin').
I had to pee twice while we waited, and then again when they came in at about 3:15 and put my I.V. in. The assured me I was next in line. I tried to ignore the groaning and grunting I could hear through the wall.
I sat there waiting, waiting, waiting......... Eventually I feel asleep, not because they had given me ANYTHING in the I.V., no, I was so calorically deficient that I just passed out.
When I woke up I was still no closer to getting into the procedure room so my sweet husband decided to play hangman with me. That lasted about six rounds and then I asked what time it was. He didn't want to tell me. I MADE him. It was 4:40PM. I suddenly realized I had to pee desperately and my lips were really chapped. You start to notice all kinds of crap when you're pinned down to a bed, thank you I.V.
So he had to go WITH ME to the bathroom. As if it isn't humiliating enough to be wearing a mini-gown, with sexy gray socks, but then your husband has to come WITH YOU to the bathroom while you pee out of your BUTT and your pee pee hole. There's not a shred of mystery left in our relationship at this point.
I'm not sure when they finally wheeled me back into the "room" but I was pretty hot and in NO MOOD for small talk or any discussion with Dr. M. I pretty much was like "let's get this shit over with so I can get the hell out of here."
The last time I had this done (9 years ago) I remember NOTHING. And I mean NOTHING. This time, I remember 97.4 % of it.
First of all, Mark said he could hear me SCREAMING from the recovery room, on the other side of the wall. What I remember is saying fun and sweet things like "mother f&%ker" that hurts and "g-damn it" and also "son of a b%$ch". Then just press repeat. I think I apologized for my profanity but in hindsight I really shouldn't have. They can suck it. That shizzle hurt like a mo-fo.
So rather than, I don't know, giving me a little more sedative, the stupid anesthesiologist was HOLDING ME DOWN so I wouldn't move, and saying "we're almost there". I wanted to ask her if she'd ever felt like there was a GIANT ALIEN BEING crawling around her intestines but I was too busy being in pain and crying for my mommy. If I could have gotten my thumb in my mouth I would have but the damn woman had my arms pinned too.
I'm really hoping there's some Karmaic influence at work here and someday she'll be in my, er, position and better understand why just knocking my ass out would have been the humane thing to do. As expected, they didn't see anything they thought they would and believe me I watched a decent amount of it, listened to their small talk, told them a funny story about my mom (tee hee) and then they wheeled me back to the recovery room.
They told me they removed some stuff, biopsied something they couldn't remove (trust me, I'm not worried at all about it) and sent me home with some after care instructions. In recovery, I drank two cups of apple juice, ate shortbread cookies they gave me, three packs of graham crackers and two packs of saltines. I probably looked like Cookie Monster eating a cookie. And had the crumbs all over me to prove it.
I will say this: my story is unusual. Honestly. Most people don't remember ANYTHING from their colonscopy experience. It's VERY rare for you to remember anything or feel anything or remember that you felt anything so I don't want to deter ANYONE from doing this. It's one of those screenings that, while really unpleasant for 48 hours, is super important to do.
And trust me, I remember what the "anesthesiologist" looks like and I REMEMBER HER NAME. She better hope I don't see her in public or Maude's gonna punch her in the gut, in about seven different places. And then I'm gonna pin her down, get two inches from her face and say "we're almost there." With a SMILE ON MY FACE.
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