Flush This!

As many already know, I have a history of bowel problems. I have often been told that I'm full of s#%t. With that in mind, I followed up on a suggestion by my doctor to have a colonoscopy. In fact, it is recommended that anyone over the age of fifty have such a screening. 

First, to back up a little: I come a family that has a long history of mishaps of the bowels. Perhaps that was our ancestors' real name and they changed to the sweet-smelling name Bowers out of embarrassment.  Whenever such an event happened to a family member, it was reported and embellished to a treasured anecdote shared amid much laughter. ( I might add that I was raised with three older brothers who gleefully added each new story to their comic repertoire.). When I shared my Friendship Trail mishap,  I had hoped people would find it amusing as I did - after the fact.  But my "comic" story was used against me. 

But I gotta share this one because it was funny. Please continue reading only if you have a scatological sense of humour or you want to know about colonostomies from aaa veteran. 

The day started off well enough. Until we hit the dog. My BFF was driving me to Welland Hospital for the procedure. Just as passed through the red light at the water tower, a Beagle ran right in front of the car and we heard a thump. I screamed and covered my eyes while BFF watched the dog, seemingly unhurt continue running toward the cemetery. So we spent the next half hour looking for the dog with no luck. We both felt sick over it. Fortunately or unfortunately my stomach (and bowels) were empty due to the purge that had taken place the day before. It is by far the worst part of the whole experience. 

I took two doses of what might call Bowel Drano and spent the greater part of the day and night on the toilet. No food allowed; only clear liquids. Gatorade is recommended. I call it the 

Black Fast, which really refers to a Lenten ritual of an Irish friend who gave up booze from Ash Wednesday to Easter. 

So, I was cleaned out and ready. Finally got to the hospital and went through the sign-in process. After that, a wonderful volunteer led me through the maze of corridors to a small waiting room where others awaiting the same fate were talking about their purge and now lightheaded-ness. We all became "fast" friends, like many who experience a shared trauma. Maybe we became friends because we all knew that the others were going to their anuses probed. Shared embarrassment can be a real ice-breaker. 

Then the wait began ( doctor running late.) Someone came in carrying a big box of donuts from Timmie's as if to torture us. She moved quickly towards the back room as if she was afraid of six or so pairs of hungry eyes that had latched onto the box of donuts. 

Finally, my name is called. I strip down and put on a backless gown (how appropriate) and lie down on a gurney to wait. Nurse has trouble finding a good vein (and no I've never used intravenous drugs; I just have hard-to-find veins.)

So I waited some more with my saline drip and then they took me to the room where the procedure is done. The nurse (?) added the tranquillizer to the mix and I was soon off to la-la land. I woke up back in the recovery room. Missed the whole thing. They could have put a microchip or a drone up my ass and I would never know. Then came the gas. Lots of it. Didn't care; let it loose. Now I have tell my "only in Canada" part of the story: I was almost fully recovered when one of my new waiting room friends was put in the bay next to mine, just back from her colonoscopy.  While the nurse bustled around trying to make her more comfortable, she politely asked,"I have a lot of gas. Is it alright if I pass wind?"  The nurse just said, "let 'em rip, honey."  Only in Canada would someone be that polite. 

So BFF found me a little dazed and we got lost in the maze on the way out. 

Waiting for me in her car was a Triple Triple and chocolate cream donut. What a great friend!

Sure hope that dog is OK.