I’m not one to talk about my medical history. Unless there’s a reason to do so. Which there is, in this instance. After putting a medical, ahem, “procedure” off for two years beyond the recommended five years, I mustered the courage earlier this month to schedule an appointment for a colonoscopy. I know that last sentence will cause some of you to smile broadly and others to stop reading in an attempt to scour the image from their minds. I’m not bothered by the rubber-hose treatment, at all. An IV and good drugs took care of the discomfort Friday. I was so loopy afterward that I can’t remember getting dressed. I’m unsettled by the long fast filled with broth, Gatorade, Jell-O, and (add a second “ahem” here) “cleansing agents.” (Think: Thar she blows.) Forty-two hours of fasting in this instance (as a result of scheduling the “procedure” in the afternoon to work into my newspaper schedule.) My online commenters “sympathized” by telling me what they had for breakfast – and sending recipes for carb-loaded meals to eat afterward. I appreciated the gallows humor from the online gang, as well as that offered in Dr. Chris Kutteruf’s hired hands. I told a receptionist that I wouldn’t be bright-eyed when I arrived for the procedure. But she assured me with a chuckle that I would be “bushy-tailed.” Why am I telling you this? A colonoscopy may have saved my life 10 years ago. I want to remain as far away from treatable maladies for as long as possible, to grow old with my gal of almost 34 years. It’s my way of saying to her, “I love you.” Men, you owe it to your sweetheart, too. Another bites dust
