The Virgin Mary, Good Drugs, and the “C” Word
Next year I will turn sixty. Which pisses me off a little. When you turn sixty people start to treat you differently. Especially your health insurance provider and doctors, who start sending you reminders to get a flu shot, a Hep C test, a shingles shot, blah, blah, blah. Obviously you are approaching a turning point in life that will take you down the long dark tunnel to your imminent demise, and no one is going to let you forget it until you reach your destination. Happy fu©%ing birthday.
One thing I do need to take care of this year is the C word. No, not that one you dirty peeps, the other C word, the senior version…the colonoscopy. I’ve had a couple in my long and exciting life, but it’s been over ten years and I know Regence is going to get hysterical on me if I don’t do it by my sixtieth birthday. They’ve been harassing me about it for a number of years. The last one I had I was self insured and they have no record of it on file, even though they provided my private insurance at the time and I haven’t changed my name, SSN or other pertinent information in the interim. Can you say National Health Data Base Congress? No, I didn’t think so.
Colonoscopies are not fun. The prep sucks, like literally. You feel like someone pumped you full of salt water and then attached a fire house stuck in reverse up your arse. It’s always a shock when you realize the vile stuff you are expelling was inside your body, apparently some of it for several years, especially if you thought you were eating a relatively clean diet. You spend all night on the toilet and then have to get up early the next day for the big event, and even though you used the softest TP possible for your hygiene, it feels like you used Brillo pads soaked in ammonia exclusively.
So you get to the facility, and they know you had a shitty night, so they put you to bed wrapped in warm blankets, and you would suck your thumb if it weren’t for the memory of the night before and your fear of germs and all. Then they wheel you in to the “procedure” room and everyone is smiling and dressed in sky blue like the garments worn by our Virgin Mary, and they ask you what kind of music you like and give you awesome drugs and that’s it. You wake up feeling a little gassy and drooling some, but you feel positively groovy and don’t remember anything at all, which is good, because I’m sure that they have some wicked conversations while they are working on you that you would never, ever want to recall. They let you rest for a while, and eventually you are aware enough to know that you can’t stay here forever in this violet blue mind haze, although you wouldn’t really mind that at all except that you have a life to attend to and a significant other patiently waiting to drive you home. And if you are lucky, everything was fine and there was nothing frightening rearing it’s ugly head up your butt, and you can come back in ten years.
So, there it is, the good and bad of the “C” word. The night before you feel like you died and went to hell and are hanging with the demons, who are even more demented than you every imagined in your wildest nightmares and then the next day you are gently ministered to by a host of very clean, very hygienic angels who are actually doing demented things to you also but the drugs they give you are so good you have no idea what’s going on and you wake up and think you are in love with the anesthesiologist. I guess it could be worse.
©2017 by Ilona Elliott