I asked someone how they were doing earlier today and I got one of those stock answers everyone gives when they didn’t have a particularly swell week, but don’t want to burden the person asking how their week was by telling them all the gory details.
I know that was a terrible run-on sentence, but columnists are allowed to do that since they don’t write news. Somewhere, an editor is choking on his dinner and claiming that I am incredibly wrong, but I won an award for my column, so give me a little latitude. Yes, that last comment was a little self-promoting, I know. I know you didn’t ask, but I’m going to tell you anyway. It’s been one of those weeks.
I started off the week with a day off. Yes, folks, I had a rare Monday off. A lot of you are thinking I have nothing to complain about since I had a three-day weekend, but it was more of a one-day weekend.
You see, on Monday, I took care of one of the things us mature men have to take care of and I went to the doctor for a procedure. Well, you are thinking, that must have been quite a procedure if it took most of the weekend to prepare for it.
The smarter and quicker of you are about a block ahead of us and already have an idea of what the procedure was. I’m glad that you got there before I did, but I am still going to mention it to those trailing behind. The key word being behind. For the more dense readers, that’s rump, derriere, backside, tush or tuchus. At my age, it is recommended that men get the old hindquarters checked out. I don’t need to explain the ins and outs of a colonoscopy, but that was my morning excitement on Monday. Early as well. Nearly the crack of dawn. So early, you could see the moon.
I was warned that the preparation for the procedure was much worse than the procedure itself. I am here to tell you that is the gospel. Basically, it boils down to this: you starve yourself and then you give yourself what amounts to a self-inflicted stomach virus and you let it run its course until you are, well, empty.
What I can tell you about that, without being graphic, is I am less than enamored with lime Jell-o, chicken broth, and Gatorade. The Irish breakfast tea with a little sugar was okay. I would like to publicly say the makers of Miralax certainly know what they are doing. I am certain that is a product that could do double duty as a paint remover.
We have only one bathroom in our house. I don’t have any jokes to go with this, but I’m sure one or two of you can come up with something. The first half of the prep was midday Sunday. The second half was at 3 a.m.. I had only recovered from the first round when I got to wake up at an ungodly hour to do it all over again. All the while, I am starving and having hallucinations of the pizza that I wanted to eat instead of the spoonfuls of Jell-o.
My wife was very patient and as helpful as she could be. I could tell how sympathetic she was as I looked at her and watched as she ate normal food while I spooned lukewarm chicken broth into my mouth. She was a real trooper, I tell you.
I don’t remember the procedure, as I was knocked out for it. That sounds worse than it was, as they actually gave me some stuff in an IV and didn’t have one of the nurses whack me over the head with a club. Even if I did remember the procedure, this is a family newspaper and not a medical journal. You know what Roto Rooter does? Yep, same thing, but without the guy in work clothes and a Ford van. I’m guessing about the Ford van. The doctor was very nice and friendly and seemed more of the BMW type than the Ford van type. I’m glad he was nice and friendly. A surly doctor early on a Monday morning after a lousy weekend is not the one I would want for a delicate procedure.
I got a clean bill of health and the doctor said he would see me in 10 years. I almost said “not if I see you first,” but this was the guy who had just seen what I looked like from the inside, so I figured he was ahead of the game in seeing me.
I didn’t get to see the procedure on a little TV screen as I was knocked out. A few of my friends got to see theirs on a little TV, live as it was happening. I figured I wasn’t missing much by not seeing it. I’ll wait for it to come out on Netflix.
Joe Weaver, a native of Baltimore, is a husband, father, pawnbroker and gun collector. From his home in New Bern, he writes on the lighter side of family life.
