Living the piecemeal life, well into the future

Spoiler alert: I just had my first-ever long-overdue colonoscopy, and because this column is an open-window drapes-pulled-wide account of my life, of course I had to write about it.

If you’ve endured colonoscopies before and never want to hear another gruesome word about it, I urge you to turn the page, enjoy the rest of your chocolate pudding cup, and read the Dining Duo column, which always examines meals as entrées and never as exits.

If you’ve never had a colonoscopy, consider this a blow-by-blow public service message. You’re welcome. I hope it’s helpful.

For those of you who already know the horrid facts about colonoscopies but are still reading with eager anticipation, I pass no judgment on your literary taste.

Here we go.

A bit more than a year ago, I took a Cologuard test and tested positive — in that twisted medical-world way where “positive” is bad news. For regular readers familiar with my stance regarding the medical community, I did exactly what you would expect me to do: I ignored it.

That is, until my doctor said a year later: “Why does your record show that you did nothing about your positive Cologuard test?”

Oh, yeah. Tests like that follow you around, don’t they? When I told him that I ignored the test, he blew up.

Colonoscopy booking was a year out, but he knew a guy who might be able to get me in. I hoped it wasn’t a guy in a van with plush carpet interior, but no, it was an actual colon-and-rectal surgery doctor with an actual office and actual nurses and stuff. He put me on his waiting list, and I was able to step quickly into a cancellation.

And so the fun began.

Starting Saturday, I had to stop eating nuts, seeds and popcorn, which made my nightly glass of Irish whiskey much less pleasurable. But I soldiered through, proud of my staunch resolve.

Sunday, I was cautioned to eat light, rather than gorging on one last meal before the fast. This was easy enough because I eat light anyway — pretty much one meal a day, with a light snack in the morning and those now-forbidden nuts, seeds and popcorn with my evening whiskey. Maybe I could get by with an apple or orange with my Jameson’s for one night. Again, I felt proud of my stolid asceticism.

Monday, the day before the procedure, my resolve buckled, but held. No coffee in the morning. Nothing all day long but Jello or broth. And — be still my aching heart — no alcohol of any sort.

But worst of all, starting at four p.m. I had to “cleanse” by drinking four liters of some horrid “lemon” flavored liquid. But the flavor was far from lemony. It wasn’t even lemon-adjacent. It was liquid Lemon Pledge, at best.

As I took my first sip through a straw, I shot a text to my friend Donna, whose advice I trust. She was a hospice nurse, and because she’s retired, I was confident that her counsel would be inspired by her desire to do me well, not her desire to buy a new boat funded by Medicare.

“Let’s get this party started!” I wrote, and I took several slugs from the giant jug.

An hour later I texted her: “Finished drinking about a third of a gallon. Nothing yet, but a few rumbles in my bumble. Suspense is killing me!”

“So exciting!” she wrote back. “Like waiting to give birth.”

I never went through that birthing experience, except as an involved observer, but I didn’t have much longer to wait. Within minutes, I dashed to the john.

“The eagle has landed!” I texted. “The adventure begins!”

“Mylar balloons of congrats should be arriving soon,” she wrote back.

My texts got darker after that.

“Yikes! It’s a horror show over here!” I texted fifteen minutes later. The bathroom fan motor started grinding from overuse.

“Just stay in the bathroom,” she wrote. “And don’t bother wearing pants.”

I followed her advice and turned up the volume on the TV in the living room so I could still hear the movie over the thunder from behind. The film was “Pitch Perfect,” which is about as enjoyable on the stool as it is on the sofa.

A half-hour later, my emissions had morphed into garden-hose mode. “Closeout sale!” I texted. “Everything must go!”

Over the next hour or so of my incarceration, we texted song lyrics appropriate to the occasion:

“Black Water” by the Doobie Brothers.

“Dirty Water” by the Standells.

“Moon River” by Henry Mancini and Johnny Mercer.

Finally, the flow tapered off, and by about 10 o’clock or so it was over. Now fully drained of water song lyrics, Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” took on a new meaning for me. Exhausted, I went to bed.

I won’t say much about the actual procedure Tuesday morning, because I remember nothing about it, except that I awoke to find a nurse and my son asking me, “How did it go?”

“Great,” I said. “I even wrote a song about it.”

“Sing it to me,” he said, and I did—one whole verse, clearly formed in my mind as I awoke. They seemed to like it.

My son drove me home to the rest of my post-potty-purged life, but unfortunately, the drugs that create such a pleasant sleep also short-circuit your short-term memory, so I can’t remember the lyrics or the melody of the song. Only the title: “Thunder from Behind.”

Too bad. I’m sure it would have been an ass-kicking party song.

But admit it, if you’re the kind of person who has read this far, you’d sing along to the chorus, wouldn’t you?

Again, no judgment here. I have been purged of anything even resembling shame.

TR Kerth is the author of the book “Revenge of the Sardines.” Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com

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