Colonoscopy Deluxe: Trapdoor Knickers and All

I had another one of those days again.

The kind of day when you can’t get motivated, you ask?

Nope.

The kind of day when you drop everything you pick up, you think?

Nope.

The kind of day when you just want to curl up under the covers and hide, right?

Nope. Well, upon reflection, yes. But nope.

My “another one of those days” was hospital procedure day.

A colonoscopy to be exact.

This test was conducted at a private hospital so after settling into my room, ordering room service and taking a soapy shower in my ensuite, I wrestled my way into my two gowns, one closed at the back and one at the front for double bum flashing protection and jumped onto the bed.

A nurse came and took my novel-length medical history and concluded with, “You’re third on the list so you should get called around half-ten.”

Well, then it makes perfect sense, that our appointment time was 7:30.

A few minutes later, the nurse returned with some deluxe items: White as snow slippers, still in the package, and knickers (underwear, pants, you pick your word) with a built in hole in the back with a Velcro trap door. Sweet! They might as well put a bull’s eye on my back end with an arrow saying, enter here. I mean, seriously. If you want me to cling to any dignity, I’m not sure these nifty little undergarments are the way to do it. Did I mention they were made out of reusable shopping bag material? They were just such a treat!

While we waited, I shifted around in the bed trying to get comfortable, only to hear mouth say, “Oh shoot, I just blew out my trapdoor,” before my brain registered the words. I dare you to try to casually work that one into a conversation at your next dinner party.

At one in the afternoon they finally came for me. And can I just mention...I hadn’t eaten for 41 hours at this point. (With the exception of some much needed sugar tablets.) As my friend Beth would say, and to put it mildly, I was a little Hangry.

I dutifully followed the nurse to the theatre to be met by my surgeon, Mr. Farmer, dressed in a plastic apron. Umm...I have no words.

“I’m just going to give you some oxygen in your nose in case you fall asleep and it drops,” the nurse said as she hooked me up.

Now. This is the part where hangry hysterical laughter spews out of my face. FALL ASLEEP?!?

They don’t know me at all, do they.

No, the two sedatives injected into my delicate hand were as useless as a shopping bag with a trap door. Speaking of...I loved it when the doctor in the plastic apron said, “Let’s just get this door open,” as he put me in position. Loved. It.

And sleep?? 300 feet (okay maybe not quite that much) of hose jammed up to my throat through my intestinal passageway preceded by some torturous medical blow dryer to fill me like a balloon does not exactly speak, lullaby. As usual, I am never a simple case and one particular corner in my bowel was not cooperating. With the combination of flipping me around side to back a few times, and a nurse applying external pressure (Oh yay! More pressure!) on my abdomen, we finally got around it.

“Is that what I think it is?” Mr. Farmer said to the nurse after 45 minutes.

“I think it is,” was her reply.

Umm, I’m right here. This is not how I want to find out about the cancerous tumour growing deep inside me. Not with the tube still jammed in places where nothing should ever be jammed.

“Yup. It’s the end. We’ve gone as far as we can.”

Oh. So about that cancer?

“I see nothing ominous like cancer so I will see you next week to discuss options.” I guess he read my mind.

The cool thing was, I got to watch the screen and see the whole thing. Except for the green parts, I’d say I’ve got some pretty good looking innards, if I do say so myself.

“You are an amazing patient. You did so good. You can come back every day!” the nurse said genuinely meaning it.

Umm...

Thanks for the compliment but I think I’ll pass.

A friend with four children told me she’d rather give birth to a 20 pound baby without an epidural than have another colonoscopy. Enough said.

I just realized that some of you may have a colonoscopy in your future. Don’t let this put you off. The drugs do work for some people and not everyone has a stubborn corner to get around.

And good test results are worth the agony, er, I mean, discomfort.

Plus, don’t forget the extra special bonus...

Those fab knickers. ;)

Poo-Pourri: the Gift of a True Friend, Obviously

A true friend laughs at your jokes, even when they suck worms.

A true friend lends an ear, a shoulder and a tissue to wipe your snot and streaming mascara when you need a good cry.

A true friend always has your back donning her Wonder Woman cape whenever necessary to save your day.

A true friend buys you Poo-Pourri.

Poo-pourri?

Before I describe this magical Daisy Doo product, let me remind you why this is a super-powered gift.

In a nutshell, I have Type 1 Diabetes and as a result of 31 years of the Betes, have collected some complications. The top three would be Retinopathy, Neuropathy and Gastro paresis, the latter being most troublesome at this point of my life.

My symptoms of nausea/vomiting, inflamed and angry intestines, stomach cramping and severe constipation thanks to the LAZIEST bowels of all time, have deemed it necessary for countless tests, probes and recently, a surgery of the bionic sort. I now have “Terry” (Enterra) the implant embedded (well, flopping around actually) in my belly wall as a sort of stomach pacemaker to help things move along. Needless to say, my quality of life in the health department has been sucked into my neglected crapper as of late.

Enter Erica, a true friend.

We don’t typically exchange Christmas gifts, so when she pulled out a tiny and delicately wrapped package this past December bow and all, I sputtered a lame, “But I didn’t get you anything!” (Speaking of sucking worms!)

“No need,” she assured me. “And you, my friend, need this gift!”

I’ve never been one to slowly peel the tape off and save the wrapping paper, much to my grandma’s chagrin. No, I’m more like a lion ripping open a leaking package of bacon after a 60 day fast when it comes to opening gifts. (My vegetarian self just threw up a little in my mouth.)

After tossing the wrapping onto the floor, in my hand I held a 49 ml bottle of Daisy Doo Poo-Pourri. (Shoot, it’s over 30 ml. Can’t take it on an airplane!)

“What pray tell, is that?” you ask.

Well as my true super-hero friend Erica explained, it is a spray which you squirt into the toilet bowl immediately before, well, ahem...you know, and the aroma is meant to not only mask the stench of death that typically wafts around the bathroom, but is also said to stimulate action in the first place.

Seriously?

Does it get any more thoughtful than this!?!?!

Now, Erica is no stranger to chronic illness herself, so it’s really no surprise that she came up with this, being someone who "gets" me on a level that many can’t.

But I don’t know where she found it, or better yet, WHY she knew about it. I mean really, who thinks to themselves, I wonder if there is a lovely smelling poo enhancing stimulant that could help a friend in need? I should research that. Yes, I’ll look for a cross between pot-pourri and speed and see what I can come up with. That combination should get her moving.

Oh Erica, how I love you. So what if I’m not cured? At least now my sh..poo smells like wildflowers and honey.

And to all the rest of you, after running out to get your own bottle, as I know you will, don’t get sucked into thinking more is better. I double squirted the first time. That was a mistake. I almost landed head first in the toilet bowl from fragrance asphyxiation.

So, Wonder Woman and the Bionic Woman...

Together, we’re unstoppable, Erica and me.

Or, at least, our sh... don’t stink. ;)