We men of a certain age (over 50) are told by our doctors that a routine colonsocopy is, as Martha Stewart would put it, a "good thing". I've been blowing off my doctor for the past three years on the subject, but the time has come to join the snake-up-the-ass club.
It must be a popular exam; it's been six months since I first called to make the appointment. The clock is running, as they say in NASA parlance -- T minus 48 hours. Unlike a NASA rocket launch though, I'll be spending the next two days de-fueling my internal tanks. No solid food, only water, Jello, and clear broth. Yummy.
The condemned man did eat a hearty breakfast. My wife prepared fresh waffles and crisp bacon, which I washed down with my last cup of coffee. I later snuck a handful of sliced oranges and my traditional tuna sandwich in seconds before the noon deadline. (Burp.)
The next big step is to take the liquids from the pharmacy that should make me crap like the proverbial goose. It's too bad I waxed the kitchen floor yesterday, because I've got a feeling the gastric juices in my vomit are going to eat right through that fresh shiny surface. I don't do well with medicine, you see.
In case you haven't guessed, I'm not the world's best patient. My sister-in-law seems to endure annual major surgeries with little complaint. Me? "Help, I've got a hangnail! Mommeeeee!"
I'm going to warn the doc that I'm telling the whole World Wide Web about what he's doing to me. So all three of you stay tuned, ya hear?
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