(Two Warnings: 1) This post got a little long with all three sections, the pictures, and my inability to care about word count on my own blog. 2) There are pictures from the doctor at the end. You can't really tell what they are, but if your squeamish then stop at the words.)
Section One: Adventures in Not Eating
It wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be. That, by far, was the most surprising thing about my Thursday/Friday adventure. It wasn't really that bad. It wasn't great. I'm not getting back in line to do it again. But I really feel like the whole experience could have been so much worse.
My last meal was Thursday morning before school. Normally, I grab a granola bar and that keeps me until recess, when I have a few crackers, which keeps me until lunch. If it's a swim morning then there is a Cliff Bar in there somewhere too. But doctor's orders were no solid food for 24 hours prior to the procedure. Proving, once again, that she is the Super Awesome Wife, Super Awesome Wife woke up earlier than she normally does and made me egg and garlic rice for breakfast. Got some protein, some starch, its filling without being too much. Excellent choice. Dirtbag spoiled.
School, I thought, was going to be rough. As I said in part one, I don't run well hungry. But I have an excellent group of students and they were behaved enough that none ended up spread across the ceiling. *Teacher Note: If you hear a teacher complain about their entire class on a regular basis, then the problem is not the students. The problem is the teacher. You set the tone. Which is why I have the strangest kids in the school every year.* It was strange to send them away at recess and not grab a snack. My brain told me to three times and it had to be reminded what was going on. Lunch is normally had with the rest of the fourth grade teachers and the fifth grade teachers, but they were microwaving and eating and there was too much food smell for me. Back to my room to write sub plans.I did get to eat some Jello. Mmmm, lime.
Section Two: The Cleansing
Doctor's orders were to begin ingesting the Colyte at 4pm, drinking 8oz every ten minutes for as long as I could tolerate it until the Jug of Destruction was half gone. Take a break until 8pm and then follow the same directions until finished.
I got home from school just after four. Sometimes it's nice to have the rest of your day all mapped out. One Beatles glass, filled to just about the middle bar in the "E", is 8oz. Bottom's up.
Now, you don't want to know the details of destruction and I don't want to talk about it too much. So let's go back to the top and be reminded that it really wasn't that bad. The mix wasn't great tasting and got worse as the night went on, but I chugged each of those glasses like a frat boy trying to convince the friends he paid to have he has self-worth so taste wasn't an issue unless it got on my lips. There's another frat boy joke there somewhere. I made it four rounds before I needed a break and did 20 minutes instead of ten. And the effects kicked around an hour after glass number one.
I spent the rest of the night going back and forth from the library to the couch. I felt lighter by the time I went to bed and only woke up once or twice thinking, "Oh no," and rushing across the hall. Thinking about it now, I should have weighed myself at four and again in the morning. The Dirtbag Ego did think, "Oh man, I am going to be so ripped Friday morning. Sweet." That guy is crazy.
Section Three: Sweet Dreams
Friday was an earlier morning than it needed to be because our choice was either get up and wait at the doctor's office, or sleep in a little and sit in traffic. I, frankly, will wait somewhere for hours if it means I don't have to deal with traffic.
We got there, got checked in, I got my first of two nifty wristbads, and the waiting began. I'm not the most chatty person most of the time, less so in the morning, and way less so when it's the morning, I haven't eaten, my bowels are cleaner than a nun's knickers, and I'm waiting for a guy to stick a camera in my butt. So I read John Dies At The End on my Nook (more on this later) and waited as patiently as I know how. Super Awesome Wife is the most understanding person. Oh yeah, did I mention it was her birthday? Happy birthday, honey!
They took me back and had me change into one of those robes that doesn't close in the back. I have no body issues whatsoever and I don't care about walking around with the Dirtbag caboose exposed to the world. "Lucky them," the Dirtbag Ego thinks. But the nice nurse lady deftly grabbed the gown and closed it as she walked me to my bed. Pretty sure this was the first time Super Awesome Wife had to suppress a giggle at my expense.
I want to mention something about the bed. Hospitals are not known for their comfortable temperatures so to keep my toasty there was a little heater box on the floor with a hose running from it to the covers by my feet, blowing warm air on the Dirtbag piggies. I want one. And I'm going to put it on her side of the bed so that my legs don't have to act as a personal heating device.
|Fear the Wristband!|
|Hospital gowns ams metals|
|Super Awesome Knitting|
|Good thing my arms aren't covered in hair|
|Super Awesome Fingerless Gloves|
We waited back there for about an hour. I got an IV buddy and then we were pretty much left alone. There are moments in times like this when you think thoughts that aren't healthy and when What If's spring to mind because you never do know and sometimes routine isn't really. But Super Awesome Wife was there and that made it better. I also spent a lot of time texting friends and family updates and taking pictures of my little alcove. I was going to read more of John Dies At the End, but then I thought, "You know, this is a book about guys who take a psychedelic drug which allows them to see demons and other hell-stuff. A well-written book. Perhaps this is not the best last thing to sink into my subconscious before they put me under." So instead I went to grantland.com on my phone and read Bill Simmons' Super Bowl Mailbag. Better choice.
The nurse and doctor came and got me, I said good-bye to Super Awesome Wife, and away I was wheeled. They turned me onto my side and told me what the plan was. The nice nurse tried to cover me up a little better, "to make me comfortable," and I told her, "Thanks, but in a minute I am going to have no secrets, so I'm ok." I watched the doctor inject a milky liquid into my IV heard him say, "Pleasant dreams," and pat my shoulder. Then the world went italics.
The very last piece of dream I remember before coming all the way back was something about football. I can still see it, players on a field. So I guess not reading the book about demons was a good choice.
I have never been drunk. Point of fact, I have never had a drink of any type of alcohol. No drugs either. The only other times I've been messed up are when they took out my wisdom teeth, and when they did a lithotripsy to get at some kidney stones. Colonoscopy > lithotripsy. You think your butt is a place they shouldn't be sticking a tube, there is only one easy way to a kidney. So I felt really messed up coming out of the sleep they put me in. "Come on, Mr. Robertson, lets get you up and into the recovery room. No no, this way, here, let me help you, hold on to me." There was no walking in a straight line. Straight lines did not exist. Woo, I did not enjoy that feeling. The doctor told me later they had used a little more anesthetic than normal on me and the nurse called me a light-weight. Truth.
Super Awesome Wife came back and tried not to laugh at me again. "You look wasted, honey." The doctor came in and gave us the low down, and it was a good thing she was there because I have no idea what he was talking about. I do know he said there was nothing out of the ordinary that he saw, and he took a few biopsies which he'll send to the lab and we'll talk about next Friday when I come back in.
I was feeling better but still not completely clear as I staggered back out the truck. The Quote of the Day goes to Super Awesome Wife as I weaved along the sidewalk to the parking garage. "You look like a drunk who is trying very hard not to look drunk." And then she did laugh at me. In the truck we both decided it was a shame I didn't have any Pink Floyd because that would have been perfect and I finally would have understood what the hell The Wall was about, so instead we popped in The Ultimate Jimi Hendrix Experience and went home, where we ate and passed out.
|Dave's not here, man|
And now, the doctor photos. So if you aren't interested in what the inside of my backside looks like you should probably stop now. And I have no idea what I'm looking at, but I think it's cool. How often do you get to see what you look like on the inside?