Today I’m going to tell you a story of love and heartache. Of joy and sorry. Of a little girl trying to make it in the world. Yes, today I’m going to tell you about one of the worst days of my life: My first colonoscopy.
And yes, this story ends with a camera shoved up my butt.
My father had colon cancer 10 years ago, so when I saw a massive amount of blood in the toilet one day, you better believe I sat in my room rocking back and forth humming the theme song of Barney.
After 3 hours of hysterical crying, a phone call was made, and a date was set for the butt rape.
The actual procedure (the camera-ass thing) isn’t all that bad, seeing as they dope you up like crazy. It’s the day before, I repeat. The day BEFORE, the prep, that becomes a living hell.
You are presented with a gallon jug and a solution mix (available in a plethora of flavors, orange, blueberry, you’reabouttopeeoutofyourassberry) and must chug the first half of a gallon within 20 minutes. Shit. Then chug the other half, and well, shit some more.
Sounds easy right? Not exactly.
The solution itself is so thick and salty, your brain immediately screams “I’m not swallowing” and you soon find yourself in the fetal position gagging up this “devil’s drink” onto the kitchen floor.
At this point, time was running out, poop was building up, and my dad was screaming at me to man up and chug. My brother told me to start taking the “nectar of death” like a shot. And seeing as I’m a pussy. I attempted to sandwich it.
Orange soda. Witches brew of death. Orange soda.
Didn’t work. I kept hearing these high-pitched screams and then I realized it was me.
Supposedly your body can’t handle that much liquid. A flaw in God’s design, obviously. I had never seen projectile puke until I watched 34 seconds of orange soda escape my mouth like an unruly crowd stampeding toward the entrance of Wal-Mart on black Friday. It wasn’t pretty.
Let’s just say orange soda isn’t my favorite drink and more.
I slept in the bathroom that night. Well, I sat on the commode for 5 hours straight that night. There really was no point in moving. I don’t think I know of any other way to say you literally shit for 24 hours. Literally.
When you arrive to the doctor’s office. They hand you a paper dress and ask you to “relieve yourself once more” which is such a slap in the face. Like I didn’t “relieve myself” 24 hours straight. Mother-fuckers.
Um, well, turned out they were right. There was still some “relieving” to be done.
I walked out of the bathroom, bare-assed and defeated. (Nothing new there, really.)
The anesthesiologist walks in to find me nervously attempting to cover my bare ass from the cold steel, but to no avail.
“Oh don’t worry sweetie, you’re in good hands,” she squealed as she attached the elephant syringe to my IV. “This is the same stuff that killed Michael Jackson. Sleep tight.”
And that was the day I got ass-raped by a camera four days before my 21st birthday.