Three months before:

During a routine exam my doctor informed me I should have a colonoscopy. “No issues of concern,” he assured me, “But it’s time.”

But summer approached. The beach beckoned. Folks flocked to my house, perfectly situated in a shore community. The barbecue grilled burgers, franks, and fresh veggies for al fresco dining on our new patio. Our neighborhood ice cream shop demanded my presence.

Doctors and unpleasant medical procedures could wait.

One month before:

The procrastination period ended. I wasn’t concerned. I probably wouldn’t get an appointment until fall. Specialists were usually backlogged for weeks.

Uh oh.

No problem arranging a date sooner (much sooner) than anticipated. Don’t doctors take long summer vacations? Apparently not.

Three weeks before:

I received a thick envelope via snail mail full of papers from the doctor’s office along with a packet of powdery and liquid substances to take the day before my Surgery Center appearance. In addition, I needed an EKG to ensure I would not suffer a heart attack while under anesthesia.

Two weeks before:

I get the EKG, a short, painless process. The readout looks fine.

Five days before:

The doctor’s office called and told me to report to the Surgery Center at 6:30 in the morning. I would have to leave my house at 6:00 am.

I grabbed the papers received weeks earlier and carefully read through the instructions, which included how and when to imbibe the Metamucil, Dulcolax tablets, 64 oz. of Gatorade, and packet of powdery stuff.

Three days before:

I could not eat raw vegetables or fruits, corn, seeds, or nuts. My temporary one day, comfort food diet consisted of meat, potatoes, pasta, and other high-calorie fare.

I gorged on dinner and splurged on dessert. After all, I was not going to eat for a day and a half. I savored fare usually avoided – mac and cheese one such dish – and did not feel one bit guilty.

One day before:

8:00 am – I completed my exercises, took a shower, but could not continue my normal routine because I COULD NOT CONSUME REAL FOOD; only liquids. No carbonated beverages, no dairy, no red or orange drinks. No morning coffee because I use cream. My beverage of choice became lemonade, a good choice on a hot day, but far from filling on an empty stomach.

10:00 am – I splurged on a manicure and pedicure. I needed some pleasure on the big-day-minus-one.

1:00 pm – My preparation began with four Dulcolax tablets; tiny pills easily swallowed with a glass of water. The instructions on the box specify take one. Four, I soon discovered, speeds the process. A lot.

2:00 pm – I don’t know when the pills were supposed to start to work, but less than an hour after swallowing, my stomach churned and an overall awfulness pervaded my body. I made a beeline for the bathroom…

3:00 pm – I drank the yucky Metamucil mixed with water.

4:00 pm – I felt terrible, no sugarcoating the sensation. A headache overwhelmed. My bed beckoned. The lights dimmed. I could not read or concentrate on the TV. I moaned. I crept to the toilet, my head bent between my hands.

5:00 pm – I fell asleep.

6:00 pm – I began to drink a 64-oz. pitcher of Gatorade mixed with a powdery substance. I was supposed to finish the potion by 9:00 pm, but, although it did not taste ghastly, I could not force the mixture down my throat.

I set my alarm for 5:30 am.

My mind fantasized. A sudden fear invaded my consciousness. What if I had to suddenly leave the house? What if there was a fire, or gas explosion, or terrorists invaded my block. What would I do? I would be in the middle of the street and nature would urgently call. What if I had to run away quickly? I do not run, but I could scurry if prodded. But if nature called, what would I do? I could barely walk. How awkward would that be?

If I stayed in bed what would terrorists or robbers do when they found me stooped over the toilet? Shoot and take me out of my misery? Laugh? Take pictures and post on X, (YouTube), or Facebook?

What if a tornado or another force of nature hit? There were no weather warnings on weather.com, but weird nature events happen suddenly. What if an earthquake struck and I was on the toilet? Would it knock me off? Would the toilet, although securely anchored to the floor, tilt or fall or crack? What would happen to me? How embarrassing would it be when emergency workers found me cowering in the bathroom, interrupted in the middle of nature’s call? There was nothing I could do, only hope the day would be one more uneventful day with no natural or other disasters.

8:00 pm – I wanted it to be tomorrow. I fall asleep again.

Midnight+ – I woke up a couple of times during the night, maybe more, and staggered to the bathroom. My stomach was completely, totally, unequivocally empty. I no longer knew how I felt. I was tired, weak, my brain on pause.

The Big Day:

5:30 am – The alarm roused me. Bleary eyed, I dressed and stumbled into the car. My husband, Steve accompanied me. He was also sleepy and unhappy about the early wakeup call.

6:30 am – I was not the first patient to arrive at the surgery center. The receptionist checked me in and I sat in the waiting room until summoned. I didn’t have to wait long. Ten minutes later I was ushered into a cubicle, told to strip and put on a hospital gown.

I sat in a large comfortable lounge chair which morphed into a surgical bed minutes later. The nurse gave me an IV – not the anesthesia yet – and noted my blood pressure. Additional medical personnel walked in and out checking paperwork and monitors. The doctor – whom I had never met – came in for about 30 seconds, asked if I had any questions and said he would see me after the procedure.

7:10 am – A nurse wheeled me to the operating room. I turned onto my side as instructed and the anesthetist stuck an anesthesia IV into my arm.

7:55 am – A nurse shook me awake. It took a couple of seconds to realize where I was. I felt groggy, but detected no pain.

8:05 am – The nurse brought me a cup of tea and a package of biscuits, my first solid food in a day and a half, then told me to sit up and get dressed, in a strict-sounding voice that gave me no choice but to comply.

Did I feel well enough to move? Did I want to move? Didn’t I want more time to recover? Evidently not.

8:15 am – The doctor entered my curtained cubicle, handed me a sheaf of papers and stated everything looked good. See you in another 10 years.

Really?

8:35 am – A woman escorted me out the Surgery Center door. Steve was waiting in the car at the curb, having received a call to come fetch me. Feeling light-headed and dazed, I fell into the passenger seat.

9:15 am – I entered my house, stumbled onto the couch and spent the rest of the day napping and eating actual food.

In ten years? I think I’m busy.

 

Baer lives at the New Jersey (USA) shore. Folks descend in summer, except the summer of 2020 when nobody came. No one visits all winter, so she writes. Check out her blog, sometimes humorous and occasionally noteworthy – Beach Boomer Bulletin: https://merylbaer.com