Procedure

A couple months ago my doctor suggested I go see a specialist for a “simple procedure.” The last time I went in for a “simple procedure,” was July of 1966.

My sister, Colleen, and I were duped into going in for tonsillectomies with the promise of all the ice-cream we could eat. Either the hospital was running a two for one special, or my folks needed her to baby sit me as they did not trust me to be alone. I remember we shared one black & white TV, although we each had a remote control attached to our beds. We flipped between a Gemini rocket launch and cartoons. Back in those days patients usually stayed at least one night in the hospital after an operation – none of the grab and go out-patient stuff we have today.

The procedure that I was told to schedule is decidedly different than a tonsillectomy. The doctor approaches the situation from an entirely different direction. Some people are too embarrassed to admit ever having this done. I’m not, but I’m not sure if I want to spell it out too clearly either.

To maintain some level of decorum and decency allow me to just hint at the name of the medical technique. Let’s say two friends are sitting around having a nice conversation.

The first guy asks “So what’s new with you?”

The second guy answers, “I had a colonoscopy.”

The second guy is me.

The few days before the scheduled day life started to get weird. Some of my favorite foods were prohibited which threw me completely off my feed. Normally a casual eater, I became obsessed with food and drink. Before I consumed anything I had to check the chart to be sure that I was staying true to the diet.

The thirty-six hours leading up to the appointed time was the toughest part; no solid food at all. Jello and clear liquids only, and then to really test my mettle I had to guzzle 64 oz. (8 oz. every 15 minutes) of an ugly-flavored mixture.

At the clinic I was given two gowns to wear – one for the front and one for the back. I was sternly reminded to leave my shoes and socks on which violated every accepted rule of fashion. The operating room had two large flat-screen TVs, much like a well appointed lounge. Although one of the TVs was positioned for my viewing pleasure no remote control was offered. They were playing only one program, and I, or at least part of me, was the featured attraction.

After the session was completed a nurse came into the room to tell me that even though I was exhausted, I still had to exhaust some of the excess air that had been forced into my body. Wanting to make sure that I had understood her correctly, I asked where she wanted me to do this. When she replied, “right here,” I was relieved to see that a thin cloth curtain would provide the privacy needed between me and the listening public.

To be truthful, the actual procedure is not a big deal. Dr. Colonoscoper (not his
real name) was a gentleman and a professional. It’s the preparation that I found almost intolerable. That’s the way it usually is though – the fretting, worrying and anticipation is often worse than the actual event.

Much has changed since 1966. The color TV had a better picture but there was no remote control or overnight stay. I still can’t be trusted to be alone though. Adam, my daughter’s boyfriend, had to bring me home.