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Everybody's Doing It


Yeah you know that's true. Everyone I know is getting a colonoscopy. And you should too. All the cool kids are doing it. But I've seen people approach it from many different angles. There are the 'That's an exit only' homophobic idiots. If that's true, how did you get your head so far up your ass? There are the 'The prep is the worst part' morons. No, discovering something up there that could kill you is the worst part. Then you have the 'I'd know if there was something wrong up there' crowd. That may be true but wouldn't you like a person with eight years of schooling and all kinds of expensive equipment to confirm that?

And then there's me.

Don't get me wrong, it's not my most enjoyable 24 plus hours but I've had food poisoning where vile substances were coming out of both ends at the same time so I had to choose which end to give preference too. Turns out either decision was wrong.

With the prep I know the end that is going to star in the performance and I have some idea of when it will end. Not so much with food poisoning. It amazes me that it seems the amount of food you ate triples or quadruples when it's being jettisoned from your body.

When I get there I'm told to have my insurance card and ID ready. As I'm handing them over I ask the receptionist,

"Why do you need my ID? Is there a lot of colonoscopy fraud going on?" She looks at me for a second.

"People hiring butt proxies?" She realizes I am, in fact, not insane and starts laughing.

"Most people don't come in here telling jokes."

"Most people don't know how to have fun."

I'm quickly called in to the prep area. I walk past prone people looking as if they're fast approaching the pit of misery. I know the smile on my face is unnerving to them. I can see it in their faces as I pass. It's not that I'm thrilled about this but I have a team of professionals about to give me my ten thousand poop check up. That's a ton of attention to a place that no one ever pays attention to. It's sort of a special occasion if you think about it that way.

"Take off your clothes and put on the johnny open end back." I am told. I then do. I lay on the bed figuring that was the next step and hoping I didn't lose points for jumping ahead. Another nurse came in,

"Hi, Christopher."

"You can call me Chris. I have a belief that if your clothing has no back you should lean toward informality."

"Good point." She laughs and I know we're off. I didn't tie up any information gathering or hinder any clipping and sticking and poking by the two nurses and we had some laughs while going about our duty. The nurse behind me hooking me up to monitors said they rarely find someone relaxed enough to joke around.

"Your job is tough enough. You don't need me to be a dick."

"I wish more people thought that way."

"Then I'd be out of work."

As one nurse left the other one asked what work I was referring too. I told her I write comedy for many types of media. She asked for what and I said a few things but I really got her attention when I mentioned greeting cards.

"I buy cards all the time."

"We appreciate that." She said it must be fun. I told her writing them is but it's a tough business. If you sell 3% of your submissions you're a rock star. Companies have exacting demographics and specific tones that are so calculating it makes hitting their target a crap shoot. It was a nice, normal conversation that most people, knowing I'm about to have the Swiss Army Knife of medical apparatus shoved up my ass, may have taken issue with.

I'm in the room by myself so look around and see the machine that's monitoring my blood pressure and heart rate. 105/47 seems like a high heart rate so I assume that's my blood pressure. The heart rate is reading 87 and that seems fast. So, because I have nothing else to do and entertaining myself is one of my skills, I decide to get my heart rate down to 60 or below.

Without dying. Because that would be cheating.

84, 86, 84, 82, 78, 77, this game is harder than it appears. 75, 71, 70. It sticks at 70 for a while. I'm way off my target. I don't know when they're coming for me but I know it's soon. Time to reach my goal is running out. It's very strange to be in a game of lowering your heart rate and have stress doing it.

It goes to 67. 67, 67, 67, shit. I've hit a plateau. None of my tricks work. 67 is blinking, taunting me.

Finally two nurses break the agony and roll me, well, if truth be told, to a much more agonizing place.

It's a small room. It resembles a room in a high tech hoarders house. I don't know what most of the stuff is but I do know which piece has been up people's asses. The doctor comes in with his 'it'll be okay' spiel. No it won't, I think, I didn't get my heart rate to 60 so surely I will die.

"Situations do happen but it's very rare. One in a thousand."

"I hope your last procedure wasn't your nine hundred and ninety ninth one then."

The nurse laughs but the doctor seems in need of 3cc's of humor. While he's giving his comfort routine (from the book, 'Personality Deficient Doctor's Guide To Comfort') I'm thinking, "He's in the perfect doctor job for someone who doesn't like people. He hasn't touched me, he's barely blinked, you know he's played video games. So what's a camera on a stick floating through uncharted territory killing bad guys? I should call Electronic Arts and see if they'd be interested in a video game called Ass Attack.

The anesthesiologist comes in and we're introduced. He's at an advantage because I can only maneuver in so many positions to make a proper introduction. So we sort of shake hands over my face. The doctor starts to run down what he's going to do. It's fascinating really. Let me sum it up for you.

He's going to nighty night my ass.

I'm told to get on my side in a position known in the medical community as 'the most vulnerable'. From this standpoint I can watch the anesthesiologist mix my Michael Jackson killer. It looks like melted marshmallow in a tube. I should call Kraft Foods and see if they'd be interested in a candy called Jackson Juice.

The doctor, once again, tells me not to worry. I wasn't until he started making me worry. To lighten the worrisome mood I tell the anesthesiologist he seems confident but how he can be so certain he can put me under.

"Oh," he says. "I'm fully confident you will be under."

Does that sound vaguely threatening to you? It did to me.

Suddenly I see something on the monitor. I'm not sure I'm supposed to be seeing this. All it is is a bunch of lube being squirted onto the camera lens. It looks like a black and white acid trip. But does a person really want to see the lube that's going to be up his ass in a minute? Maybe but I'm not one of them.

"We'll be making a DVD of this in case they have to check anything later." The anesthesiologist says.

"Cool." I say. "Can I get a copy?"

"Why would you want a copy of that?" He spits as if this is the most disgusting and horrific thing I've ever said (note: it is not).

"Put a little music under it. Have Morgan Freeman do a narration. I bet I could get this into some film festivals."

But he's not buying into my vision so decides to put mine out. As he administrating the propophyl I start to think,

"I could die." If you think about it 1 in 1000 isn't great odds. Just think if 1 in 1000 times you left the house you died. Everyone would have died a long time ago. The ruling party would be the agoraphobic society. "I guess I should have some parting words." Which, looking back, seems a waste. I mean, no one was going to hear it. "So, that was life, huh? I'd give it a 57% on Rotten Tomatoes."

But I didn't die. I woke up in the recovery room and was ready to go. The greeting card nurse walks in.

As she walks in I'm reaching behind me.

"What are you reaching for?"

"I'm making sure they didn't leave anything in me."

"You're ready to go." She laughs.

But before I left I had to be giving the lawyer approved talk down. Don't drive 55 while singing Sammy Hagar tunes, don't pet cats while operating chain saws, don't sign documents, etc. etc.

"Do you understand these warnings as I've presented them to you?" I am asked.

"Yeah." I state. "Basically, don't do shit."

"Pretty much. Eat and sleep. That's what you can do."

"I can handle that."

"Good. Sign here."

Hey, wait a second. What was on that list again? Don't sing stupid songs, don't juggle cats and chain saws (or something like that. I think I nodded off a bit) and, ahh. . .

"Wait. Wasn't there something about not signing stuff in there?"

"Oh, that doesn't mean this." Funny how this is exempt. But in my altered state I'm thinking, 'Oh, okay. I'll sign a lawyer created document that signs away all my rights including the one that states if I get a prolapsed rectum next time I shit that's on me.'

I sign and leave because I couldn't if I didn't sign. I see my girlfriend in reception and she asks how many polyps I had. Three, I responded because I have no shame.

"That's how many I had." She answered.

Later that day she's discussing my recent colonoscopy (because she takes full advantage of my lack of shame) and mentions my polyp count.

"I had three too." The other person responded.

Wait just a polyp snipping minute here, Jack. So far 100% of the people I've talked to have had three polyps found during their exam. I smell scam. I've got to look into this because if the next person tells me they too had three, well, you can bet I'm going to do my best to expose this scam and topple the medical industrial colonoscopy complex before it takes another two millimeters of flesh.

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