When the Lid to the Septic Tank Went Into Orbit

I wrote this about my last colonoscopy. I got caught for another one tomorrow, so you know what I am doing right now.

About two and a half weeks ago I answered the phone and a pleasant receptionist voice said,
“Lynn?”
I said, “Yes it is.”
She continued in her pleasant receptionist voice, “This is Dr. M’s office calling to set up your appointment for your colonoscopy.”

Long pause.

Long pregnant pause.

My mind raced.
I thought Dr. C. gave me the name of a guy who does this sort of thing, just for my information only.

I thought I could call the guy up myself and make an appointment for this indignity when I was feeling strong and up for it.

I thought I could wait until I had some unusual colonic symptoms.

“Lynn? You already admitted it was you.” She said with a laugh in her voice, “You can’t get away now!”

Tee hee, indeed. Clearly, she had done this before.

“Are there any times that you would be unable to have the procedure done?” she continues

Yeah, like nev-er,

“Um, well I’ll be gone next month from the 8th until the, uh, 20th. So maybe some time after that.” I told her thinking of Southern California and how far in advance one must make appointments for this sort of thing.

“Oh I have earlier times than that! How about a week from today at 9:00AM?

“Uuuhhhhhh,” I eloquently replied.

“We’ll just get it over with!” She added helpfully.

(We, indeed!)
I spent the week in a state of dread. I told my family that I was going to get me some of those big cotton granny panties and cut an appropriately positioned hole and they could just work with that. Then my behind won’t have to be shining out there for everyone to see.

I told them I was going to write, “Does your mother know what you do for a living?” on my behind in case they made me take them off.

Rob suggested I should put an action figure in there so they’d have a surprise. He said, “But don’t get one that looks like this,” as he spread his arms in a fighting position and held an imaginary lance in one hand and bent his knees outward. Get one that doesn’t have any sharp weapons and is just standing there with his arms down. Or, I know! Get Superman flying! He continued to go through various action figures that would probably be painful. The thing about my son is, he always gets involved.

I was afraid to eat anything at all the day before. During cocktail hour, I had a delicious clear looking, but not clear tasting, concoction to drink. I begged everyone to have some of it, to help me drink it. Isn’t that what family is for? At one point during the diabolical event they glibly call, “prep” the force caused me to rise up off of the potty.
About the time the lid blew off of the septic tank, I realized there was no way I would ever do this again.

Every ten years? I don’t think so.

OK, the next morning I made it all the way to the hospital with Richard’s encouragement. (Dragging and pulling)
While lying in the side-rail-roll-y-bed, with plastic bracelets and a blood pressure cuff on one arm and a needle in the other, I commented that the last time I was in a bed like this they made me take a baby home. I was getting a little nervous about this.
Soon, they were rolling me away with Richard calling in the background, “Let me know if it’s a boy or a girl!”

Ultimately, the “Procedure” wasn’t bad at all.

I got to watch a television show about traveling through a little pink cave.
I gained some valuable information to impart to my daughter, who is an RN
(How to give anesthetic: Put some into the tube that is running into the patient’s arm. If patient says, “Ow, Ow, Ow,” put some more in.)
And due to some things called polyps, I got an invitation to return for another one in three years.
Yeah.
Try and catch me.