Last week, I dropped my trousers for my first-ever colonoscopy.
Most people are advised by their doctors to start getting intimately acquainted with a camera by the age of 50. But due to some family medical history, I was advised to let a doctor act out his Federico Fellini fantasies on my undercarriage by the age of 40.
Since I turn 41 in January, I decided to literally get on the stick.
Everyone who has gone through this procedure says the worst part is the prep you go through the day and night before. You’re not allowed to eat anything the day before, so it’s a day of drinking nothing but water. Starting at 5 p.m. the day before the procedure, you have to drink what is essentially Drano for People.
Thankfully, I’m as regular as a Jay Leno monologue so this wasn’t too traumatic.
As a matter of fact, aside from the first evacuation that rivaled that of Cambodia in 1975, the rest of the evening was oddly reminiscent of the Old Faithful cone geyser in Wyoming. As for the exact amount of force being unleashed, I wasn’t able to record too much data as I was busy holding on to the sink in order to keep from slamming my head on the ceiling.
My father picked me up at 6:30 a.m. that fateful Tuesday morning. Although I’d been as empty as John Goodman’s lettuce crisper for over 11 hours, there were still sporadic outbursts of tsunamic activity at 5 a.m. and 6 a.m. I was concerned that something untoward might happen en route to the doctor.
Suffice to say, everything on my person was clinched tightly together with extreme prejudice. Every time we hit a pothole, I was afraid something would emanate from me that would show up on radar.
Once in the little room in my little gown, it was needle time at 8:15 a.m. I’m brave enough to tell you that I’m a complete wuss when it comes to needles, but I turned my head, bit off a sizable chunk of my inner cheek and kept it together like a big boy. I’d yet to un-clinch everything that had been clinched together earlier in the morning, so I advised the doctor to send out for some Crisco, because as of that moment he couldn’t have worked a wish on a Q-tip up in there, much less a camera with a flashlight taped to its side.
The moment of truth came around 8:40 a.m. and I was wheeled back into the spelunking room. A very nice nurse asks if I’m the guy who writes the funny stuff for the newspaper. I reply, “Yes, I’m Bryan Hanks. If you happen to find any spare change up there, I’ll split it with you.”
About a minute later, the anesthetist unleashed the joy juice and I started to fade. The last terrifying thought I had before dozing off was that I never found that green army truck I loved so much as a kid.
The next thing I know, I’m back in the little room. I’m told the entire procedure lasted only 15 minutes — which I’m assuming is a good thing. Contrary to popular belief, I’ve never been drunk or high in my life, but I’ve got to say this stuff they knock you out with at the doctor’s office is fantastic.
For a few minutes after waking up, you could have cut off my arm and hit me with it and I wouldn’t have minded in the least. Ground control to Major Tom: take your protein pills and put your helmet on.
After the staff talked me down from the ceiling, the doctor came by and said everything looked OK. Since they inflate your innards with air so as to make room for the camera, the nurse came by and asked me to pull my knees up and “give her some gas.”
I’ve been with the same woman since 1990 and have never done that in her presence out of respect, so it took me a few minutes to conjure a few bars of “When the Saints Go Marching In” on the ol’ thunder trumpet. When it finally got going, it sounded more like Eminem’s latest album, but then again, they had the radio on so it may have actually been Eminem’s latest album.
At my request, the doctor filmed the entire procedure. If you’d like to purchase a copy to share with loved ones this holiday season, “Jon Dawson: Up Close and Intestinal” can be purchased at jondawson.com. Bonus features on the DVD include commentary from the doctor, my audio journal from the night before and a buyer’s guide for the best gas station pickled eggs.
As we drove away from the doctor’s office I realized that I was blessed in many ways. I have a great family support system, the doctor found nothing wrong and I was finally reunited with my long lost army truck.
Merry Christmas, everybody!
Jon Dawson’s columns appear every Tuesday and Thursday in the Free Press. Contact Jon at 252-559-1092 or jon.dawson@kinston.com. Purchase Jon’s book “Making Gravy in Public” at Amazon.com or jondawson.com.