Shit Happens, Hopefully…
My husband is in the throes of prepping for a colonoscopy tomorrow, so he’s having a shi**y night.
I feel guilty eating anything, and find myself trying to consume a dark chocolate almond with sea salt Kind bar behind his back. They’re his favorite. Bad choice. He hears me crunching, ever so quietly, and says nothing. He is so strong. I’m such a sh*t head sometimes.
Of course he didn’t follow the directions of his preparation for the big event very well. He was supposed to start drinking clear liquids as soon as he awoke. He drank a pot of coffee. And one measly glass of water. I shi# you not.
Despite the fact that I bitched at him at regular intervals throughout the day to drink the organic apple juice, lemonade quencher and cucumber lime/mint juice I made a special trip to Safeway for yesterday, he didn’t start drinking until his five p.m. prep hour.
A capful and a half of polyethelene glycol in a clear beverage every fifteen minutes. Sounds like happy hour with Chemical Ali, (google it.) The poor guy has to hold his nose to drink it, cuz it tastes like SH_T.
He is supposed to drink this chemical cocktail until things run clear. How clear isn’t clear from the paperwork. Are we talking North Idaho Mountain Stream Clear or Connecticut River on a calm winter day clear? There is no phone number to call to clear this up either, which I think is rude. Who writes up this shitty paperwork anyways? Clearly an idiot.
So, despite the fact that I am supposedly half Slovak and half Sicilian, and not indeed Jewish, I have to ask him every hour or so how things are “getting along?” Being from a big family with one bathroom to eight people I am used to talking about people’s bowel habits. It’s a common thread in conversation for us. We talk $hit to each other all the time.
There is consensus in my family that most of us have elimination issues because Phil was always hogging the bathroom. We all had to hold it in until he was ready to relinquish the throne to a lesser member, which was almost always too little too late. Most of us lived in a permanent state of intestinal stasis and we all suffer for it now. Shit happened in our house, just not often enough to maintain optimum health.
So I happen to know that things are NOT running clear for the old man, because of course I asked him, (now that there is nothing left of the polyethelene glycol and the Chemical Ali Cocktail Hour is over.) So I bitch at him to drink up– water, juice, chicken broth–because, I warn him, in my it’s-for-your-own-good Jewish Mother voice, “if you don’t go in there clean, they are gonna stick something up your arse and give you an enema,” which you would think would get him off the couch and into the kitchen to suck down more liquids, but you would be wrong. I hope he does so soon or he is gonna regret it later. And you know, regrets a bitch. Who’s got time for that shit?
He’s informed me that the cucumber/lime/mint juice is not his thing, so I’ll be sucking down a mojito or two in the shade tomorrow afternoon while he recoups. Not that I planned that or anything, but yeah, we will both be glad when this shit is over.
©2017 by Ilona Elliott