How I survived a colonoscopy

If someone had told me that I’d be in another hospital exactly one month after being involved in a single-vehicle accident, I would have said their elevator didn’t go to the top floor.

Yet, I sat in front of a registration window checking myself into Betsy Johnson Regional Hospital in Dunn the second Friday in May for a colonoscopy.

Oy Vey!

After going to the orthopedic doctor earlier in the week to get a progress report on my broken pinky, I went to my brand-new gastroenterologist – Dr. Kurt Vernon, M.D., F.A.C.G. – who promptly scheduled me for the outpatient surgery and forced me to drink a gallon of the most disgusting liquid on the planet.

All I can say is that the day before the procedure was not a very good one as I spent a great deal of time sitting on the porcelain throne; and I didn’t even have my royal scepter with me.

Ever since I received a letter from my former gastroenterologist in Fayetteville stating they no longer accepted my medical insurance, it was back to the drawing board as I began a diligent and expeditious search for a new digestive doctor.

Who was I kidding? As a huge procrastinator, it took me nearly eight months to finally consult Medicare’s online directory for providers in my area before choosing the closest one and making the dreaded telephone call.

My appointment was scheduled for the tenth of May.

Wait! What?

I shook the cobwebs from my head after hearing screeching brakes in the distance.

After flipping through my wall calendar to jot down the initial consultation, I immediately realized the date given to me by the office receptionist was four months into the future.

That’s what I get for being the procrastinator-in-chief. If I had taken the appropriate action sooner, all this mess would have been water under the bridge.

Another colonoscopy shouldn’t have come as a surprise since my love-hate relationship with the bathroom has been getting progressively worse after being on a self-imposed Covid lockdown for nearly three years.

“The G.I. Guy,” a native of Trinidad, noted my issues were situational.

As long as I’m planning to stay indoors, I don’t usually have any problems; but the moment I need to leave the house for any reason, my nervous system kicks into overdrive and I have a revolving vacation with the lavatory.

I had to make six such trips to the obligatory destination – four at home and two on the road – just to make it to the gastroenterologist’s office located on West Broad Street in Dunn.

In case your interested, I know where every public restroom is located along U.S. Route 421 between Clinton and Dunn.

Of course, I shouldn’t have eaten a double cheeseburger and a chocolate milkshake from Mickey D’s the day before my appointment; because that’s a big no-no for someone who deals with chronic irritable bowel syndrome.

However, I was ready to take my ball and go home when my new doctor, a graduate of Howard University and Howard University College of Medicine, Washington, D.C., suggested that I get the outpatient surgery just four years after having the last invasive procedure.

From my understanding, a colonoscopy is to be performed once every ten years; so, I did some counting on my fingers before giving the medical practitioner the stink eye.

What you talkin’ bout, Willis?

But it wasn’t until I walked into the office of the scheduling director at the conclusion of my visit that I discovered the procedure was scheduled for Friday morning which was only two days away.

Once I was given strict orders not to eat anything after midnight except lemon or lime popsicles and jello, it seemed like my impending dinner plans at Cracker Barrel would be my last meal before the main event.

I felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

Shortly after stripping down to my birthday suit and throwing on a hospital gown, a vivacious young nurse with ten years of experience under her belt came into my private quarters to insert an intravenous needle into my arm.

She looked like a deer in headlights when blood began squirting out all over the bed sheets and blanket like an oil gusher erupting on a drilling rig sitting out in the Gulf of Mexico.

What can I say? I have bulging veins from pumping iron at the gym.

When a bearded man with tattoos and his charming co-worker with bulging muscles of his own carted me off to the operating room, I felt like one of the Avengers going off to battle with Captain America and the Black Panther to save the planet from total destruction.

I told my father, who had accompanied me to the hospital that morning, that my illustrious posse – a former military nurse and dedicated anesthesiologist – and I would be back after we restored order to the third rock from the sun.

Moments after turning on my side, I warned the anesthesiologist that if he heard a freight train rolling through the chilly room that it was probably just me snoring in my sleep.

The handsome young man must have given me the good stuff; because I was out like a light after grasping him by the hand.

While they had to place a microscopic camera inside my derrière, I never felt a thing; and everything came out okay.

My 15 minutes under the spotlight was over in the blink of an eye.

Although I know a colonoscopy can save a life, it is not a pleasant procedure, especially the preparation component; so, if someone ever mentions that dreaded word to me again, I’m going to give them a knuckle sandwich with a side of chips.

Hoddy, ho, ho!