Colonoscopy Prep: Do’s and Don’ts

I had a colonoscopy on Monday afternoon, so you know what I was doing all day Sunday.  It wasn’t so bad, though.  This time I did things right.


I had my first colonoscopy in 2000.  What did I know back then?  They sent me home with the instruction sheet and the directions said, “eat a normal breakfast and a light lunch and begin drinking the prepared liquid at 3:00 PM.”  So what did I do?  I ate a large breakfast like it was Fat Tuesday and a lunch the size of the Last Supper.

While I was scoffing up a plate of spaghetti and meatballs for lunch my husband was shaking his head in disbelief.  “You’ll be sorry,” he said.

“Why?” I asked flippantly, while buttering another slice of Italian bread. “If I’m going to lose it all anyway, I might as well enjoy it going down. Besides, I won’t be able to eat again for 24 hours...I’ll need my strength.”

I spent the rest of the evening gagging over the kitchen sink trying to shove down another glass of golytely (that godawful drink that tastes like slimy salt water) on top of my already pasta filled stomach.  I didn’t sleep all night - for obvious reasons.  My stomach was blowing up like I was 9 months pregnant as I cursed every crumb, every bite, every piece of food that had to push through my gastrointestinal tract.  I even got mad at my husband - the sound of him snoring in a deep sleep, while I was suffering.

This time I did it right.  I was prepared and wizened to the do’s and don’ts of the colonoscopy prep.  I tried to have a positive attitude about the whole process.  I bought some lemon jello, white grape juice, chicken broth, blue Gatorade. I tried some reverse psychology with everyone, saying, “These are my special foods for tomorrow and you can’t have any.”  But they just laughed me off  - sure, mom, no problem.  

The night before, I hummed a happy tune while stirring the jello, I admired the beautiful blue of the Gatorade, I lined up a book to read and began thinking of the one good thing about a colonoscopy:  those few moments before you drift off into that happy sleep.  It’s the only time I don’t mind a doctor coming at me with a needle in hand.

It’s only a few seconds, between the time the anaesthesiologist says, “you might feel a little dizzy, a little tingly,” and the time you are totally knocked out.  But in those few seconds,  there is a bliss that comes over you - a tingling around the forehead, the relaxation of all tension, a warmth flowing through the body.  It’s the best feeling - that twilight moment before the dead sleep and no feeling at all.

So, how pitiful is my life, you must be thinking, that I have to look forward to feeling high from anaesthesia?  The truth is, I can’t drink alcohol; it makes me overheat with just one sip. I don’t smoke pot. I get hot flashes and itchy skin when I drink wine.  So I found the one bright moment in a colonoscopy - when I can get high and enjoy it.

Call me weird, but I had to find something to look forward to in this whole process, or I would never schedule another one again.

School Bus Rant

I got stuck behind a school bus today.  I forgot how annoying that is.  It seems like you wait forever for the kids to saunter on and off the bus.  Kids don’t run anymore, do they?  They take their sweet time. I swear they do it just to annoy all the drivers sitting in their cars behind the bus. 

And whatever happened to bus stops?  The bus I was trailing stopped at individual houses, put out the big STOP sign off the side of the bus, opened the door and patiently waited for the kids to finish their toast and brush their teeth. Take your time!  I’ve got all day here!

Worse than the kids, though, are the mothers who stand there in the morning gabbing with the bus driver.  They usually have a cup of coffee in their hand, pajama pants under a raincoat, hair all messy, no makeup.  They’re in no hurry.  They're going back to bed once all the little kiddies are safely on the bus. They don’t care that there are five cars idling behind the bus with very anxious drivers who are probably already late for work.

I’m sitting there this morning watching the clock on my dashboard turn over another minute, wishing I could blast my horn at the back of the bus, but really wishing I could run over the mother gabbing and laughing it up with the bus driver.  When they finally finish the conversation, the doors of the bus close and the mothers stand there frantically waving and blowing kisses to their little darlings.  Knock it off!  I wanted to yell out my window.  They’re coming back in six hours!

How I Blew My Father's Retirement Fund

I got on the internet today out of curiosity.  I wanted to see the value of a Kennedy half dollar.  I found a 1964 coin with 90% silver content valued at $129.95.  A 1965 half dollar  in perfect condition was valued at $299.95.  I almost cried.

My dad started a collection of Kennedy half dollars back in the sixties.  I guess he figured he was going to retire on their future value someday, since he had no retirement plan to speak of.  My dad was a mechanic.  He worked with his hands and got paid in cash for his labor.  Yes, back in the sixties people paid with real cash.  

I never had an allowance as a kid. I sold lemonade on the side of the road for 2 cents a cup in the summer.  And then there was the occasional happy accident.  A penny in the street, a nickel between the sofa cushions, a dime on the floor!  It was my only source of income back then. 

I would hop on my bike with my pennies in my sweaty hand and ride down to Tony’s Deli to buy some junky candy:  sugary liquid in colored waxy bottles, artificially colored hard sugar dots on strips of white paper, jaw breakers, gum. It didn’t matter what it was, as long as it was sweet and cost under ten cents. 

Getting a dime under my pillow when I lost a tooth was like Christmas for me.  It meant I could buy a chocolate bar the next day and still have change left over. Yes, a dime went a long way back then and a fifty cent piece went even further.

I don’t recall why I was in that particular kitchen cabinet that particular summer day, but I remember reaching way back behind the pots for something.  It was dark back there, I was kneeling on my knees and my hand fell onto an open can. I couldn’t see inside the can so I stuck my hand down into it and I felt coins - cool, large and heavier than any penny, nickel or dime I had ever held.  I shoved my hand way down into the can and heard a ching-ching  sound and I knew I had found treasure!

I grabbed a handful and brought them into the light and gasped. I had never seen anything like them before. They were so shiny and cool in my hand, I couldn’t stop rubbing them between my fingers. I had a feeling of fear and excitement all balled up in my throat. I felt an ecstatic scream coming on, but had the good sense to stifle it before it erupted. Something told me I wasn’t supposed to know about this secret treasure.

I put them all back except one.  I had to keep just one to look at it later.  A few days passed and all I could think about were the coins in the kitchen cabinet.  When no one was around, I would check to see that they were still there, running my hand through the can and listening to the ching-ching music I had come to love.

One day, I decided to spend my fifty cent piece at Tony’s deli.  I couldn’t even carry all the candy that coin bought.  When I realized my father didn’t notice a few coins missing, I became greedy and would snatch a coin every other day, running down to Tony’s deli for more upscale foods like potato chips and ice cream.  

Finally, one day, Tony asked me, “Hey kid, where you getting all these coins?”

“My father.”

“Oh, yea?  Well, bring me some more,” he said.

And I did.  Until, I got sloppy, and in my brazen wanton lust, I was caught one day by my younger brother.  To keep him from tattling on me, I had to share my secret, which meant the pile of coins was being depleted now by two.

My father kept dropping coins into the can at night and we would empty it by day.  At some point he must have realized that something wasn’t right.  Who knows?  Maybe the ching-ching sound got too hollow or maybe he reached in one day to see how high his retirement pile was growing, but that was the day my high life at Tony’s deli stopped.

“Who’s been stealing my Kennedy half dollars?!”  my father bellowed through the house.  “When I catch whoever’s been stealing my Kennedy half dollars I’m gonna kill ‘em!”

I was practicing for my piano lesson when the hollering started.  I tried to play through it, but my fingers started shaking and sweating and I had to stop when he stormed into the room.

“Have you been taking my Kennedy half dollars?!” 

“Me? No,” I said in my meekest voice. “Maybe Freddy took them.” 

It was as simple as that.  I sold my little brother down the river.  I’m not proud of that moment in my life, but that’s just how it was.  When you have a younger sibling that you can blame things on you do what you can to save your own neck.

I got my own bad karma right back at me in the next few months while I was sitting in the dentist’s chair having the cavities drilled out from all that candy I ate all summer.

Come to think of it, the only one who made out was Tony.  He got most of my father’s Kennedy half dollars - the real silver ones. I wonder where he retired to.