In all fairness, the messy buildup was far worse than the actual “procedure.” The latter is difficult to describe in any delicate manner, so allow me to elucidate:They put a flexible endoscope up your butt and look for polyps and other cancerous evidence. (I swear, when I was “waking up” in the recovery area I thought I heard a nurse answer the phone, “Butt Room ….!”)
I put quotations around the phrase “waking up” because I’m not at all sure I was unconscious. The drug they give you is called Propofol, which, disturbingly, is neither an anesthetic nor a knockout drug. It is, according to Wikipedia, an “intravenously administered hypnotic/amnestic agent.” Does that mean the medical staff was communicating with me and I was responding to requests like “Roll onto your right side?” (or for that matter, “Quack like a duck?”). The drug has a nickname, given because of its milky liquid appearance: “milk of amnesia.” Maybe death is like this? After we die, do we forget that we were ever alive? It would make sense, since we will all spend much more time being dead than we spend being alive. What’s the sense of remembering such a miniscule portion of our existence for an eternity? Personally, I would much rather forget the colonoscopy (as well as a number of other things in my life, for that matter).
|Cemetery statuary under a blanket of snow|
|Death, mixing it up ...|
|My lovely wife Jill arriving with supplies|
So after the colonoscopy, the doctor who, um, guided the scope on its merry way told me that my colon looked perfect and that I should continue doing whatever I had been doing. I looked at him and the nurse and said, “Eating fried chicken and drinking bourbon?” The nurse let out a gasp and said, “What?! And I’ve been starving myself all this time?!....” I shared the fried chicken and bourbon line with my wife, much to her chagrin, as she insists on shopping at Whole Foods. The other thing that I will continue doing, of course, is writing my “Cemetery Traveler” blog!