My In "Auger" ation

The puns from family and co-workers came fast and furious. "Let me know how everything comes out". "It's gonna be a shitty day, isn't it?" I just rolled my eyes and went on. Although I did come up with the little bon mot in the title.



Anyways, what everyone told me about the procedure was true. The prep the day before is way worse than the procedure itself. First, you must stop eating by mid-night the night before. Then, at 1:00 pm, you must down a 10oz bottle of Magnesium Citrate, a laxative. The label says your first "movement will be in 1/2 to 6 hours later". I took two cringe inducing swigs (Yech, yeah right that's lemon-lime). Then remembered that I was about out of cigs. Crap (ha ha). Well, I threw on my coat and walked to the nearby Winn-Dixie and got a couple of magazines too. Stupid me bought a food magazine. Do not buy a food magazine if you're going 24+ hours without food. Then, I came back (rather quickly) to finish off the Magnesium Citrate.



Next, at 5:00 pm you start drinking a gallon of this stuff that has the consistency of anti-freeze. Thick, gelatinous, and gag-inducing. One glass every 15 minutes until you drink it all. That was one of the hardest things that I've had to do in my life. You hold your breath and down it all as quickly as possible, like you're doing a beer bong.



I drank that crap along with some jello and water and nothing else. I can now empathize with Ethiopian kids (I kid). Really, hunger is not something to make fun of. Friends and family make fun of it, but they've all been there, most of them, anyways.

So, I show up bright and early at the endoscopy center with my chauffeur (Dad). The folks are all friendly and shit and show me to the changing room. There, I find my medical wardrobe and it ties in the back, along with some cute baby-blue sock thingys. Did I mention that it's about 35 degrees outside and not much warmer in the "pre-procedure" area. They will not have a problem with my "junk" getting in the way. Nor will I be getting any date invitations.

Next, in the pre-procedure room, a woman with a heavy lisp inserts my intra-veneous line while we sit there watching the pre-inauguration ceremony. I get to hear more southern, conservative invective regarding the new President. I think that's where I come up with the hilarious "In 'Auger' ation" phrase. And this is before the drugs. And my feet are cold, even with the nifty little socks with the rubber designs on the soles (still got them, don't know if I'll ever wear them again, but I paid for them anyways, damn it!). I'm ready to be put under, please, now.

Minutes later, I'm directed to the "Procedure Room" (PC). Funny how they always call it a "Procedure". Not a "Reaming", or something with "Herschey" in the title, always a "Procedure". All nice and calm and peaceful-like, like you're having your teeth cleaned, or your manicure done. Only more invasive.

We're now in the PC, and I'm placed on my back while the technician connects the E.C.G. lines to the three pods on my hairy chest (that will hurt like Hell upon removal). They put a nice comfy blanket across my legs to get me all cozy and shit and talk all nice and friendly and shit. The nice technician puts that little thing in my nostrils with the oxygen. They ask me to lay on my left side 'Oh, God, here we go'. The Anesthetist tells me (while hands re-arrange my pretty robe) that I won't feel anything within around 30 seconds while pushing the plunger into my I.V. He lied. I was out within 2 seconds of the drugs entering my I.V. Oh, thank you, God and the drug manufacturers.

Next thing I know, someone is saying "Good Morning, Sunshine". I awake actually feeling pretty good. Really, I felt better than before I went in. I looked across the room and actually said, "Good Morning, ladies!" They make good drugs nowadays, and they're legal, too. They could make a killing off of this stuff.

Now, I knew from other people that the nurses would be expecting me to fart a good one before they would release me. But, honestly, I didn't feel bloated at all, and I told the nurse that. "Yeah, you've already performed for us, so if you don't feel bloated, you should be fine." I guess I got lucky and got Henny Youngman's granddaughter for a post-op nurse.

Now, I've never been a "bottom" (If you know what I mean). And I didn't feel violated at all. I felt no difference, period, except that I felt "good". They must have put a little THC in those drugs is all that I can think of. I'll have to ask on my next visit what kind of lube they use.

The nurse helped me get dressed. Actually, she insisted that she put on my underwear (up to my knees) and my socks and shoes, so that I wouldn't have to bend over and get woozy. I finished dressing and she put me in a wheelchair (hospital rules) and rolled me to a room to await the final reckoning from the butt-doctor. I kinda had flashbacks of my grandpa in the Nursing Home *shivver*.

After waiting in the small waiting-room and critiquing the color scheme and furnishings for 15 minutes, the butt-doctor finally came in. He said that everything went well, in his opinion. They found "several, three or so" polyps that didn't look 'meaningful', yadda, yadda" and that we would have the results in three weeks or so. "Don't worry, I didn't see anything to worry about".

So, we'll see. Does he tell everyone that? I'm not terribly worried, but you never know.

I do know that breakfast with my dad at the IHOP on the way home was one of the best breakfasts that I've had in quite a while. Starving yourself for 30+ hours will do that. Even if the waitress was mediocre, and it was, you know, IHOP.