Part III Of My Colonoscopy Trilogy: Routed

This is the third and final post about my colonoscopy. The previous two posts were written before the procedure; this one was written in hindsight.  (post 1, post2)
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Anxiety gripped me as the day of rectification approached. I wasn’t concerned about complications or pain; I was worried about the emotional trauma that comes from getting violated. Butt thanks to a heavy dose of Midazolam, my memory of the event has been wiped clean, leaving no track marks of the dirty deed.

Lacking any recollection the encounter itself, I can only relate to you the final hours leading up to that deep, dark day. My doctor had given me a bowel preparation instruction sheet, a four page battle plan detailing the precise timing for executing each phase of the attack on my colon. It’s a saga of laxatives, stool softeners, and enemas. As a retired naval officer, it seemed only natural to keep a log, recording significant events as they occurred. Bear with me, there are a few sentence fragments strewn about the log, that’s just the way we do it in the military. All times are based on the 24-hour clock.

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BATTLE LOG

Date: Wednesday, 7 March 2012

Location: Home

1400: I broke out my bowel prep instruction sheet. As directed, I began ingesting the laxitatives and anti-foaming agents: two Dulcolax and two Simethicone pills.   

1500: Took another dose of Dulcolax and Simethicone, followed by an eight ounce Miralax-Powerade chaser. Contrary to the warning from a friend, the drink didn’t taste like antifreeze. 

1515: Consumed another glass of Miralax-Powerade. Still waiting for the enemy to attack.

1539: Started drinking my third glass of Miralax and Powerade; I may be falling behind schedule. The mixture is not unpleasant to drink, but the shear volume is starting to get to me. Over an hour has passed and I still don't feel any different. The anticipation is killing me. I know I’m going to get bushwhacked, so I took some defensive measures. Huggies baby wipes and Destine diaper rash ointment are staged next to the toilet and I stockpiled a supply of towels outside the shower door. I warned my family to stay clear of my bathroom. 

1604: I started drinking my fourth glass of poison. There was still no sign of the enemy and I was beginning to worry that he was marshaling his resources to launch the mother-of-all-attacks in an attempt to drain my fighting spirt with a single, massive blow, leaving nothing behind but a scorched hole.

1624: I was working on my fifth glass and the enemy still hasn't bothered to poke his head out of his burrow.  The gurgling and growling noises are definitely getting louder. The enemy is pressing forward.

1642: Without warning, just after taking a sip from my sixth glass of Miralax-Power, the enemy launched brief assault. He struck quickly in a single, blistering, fluid movement. There were no casualties, but the putrid stench of death hung heavy in the air.

1650: The enemy attacked with an unexpected sense of urgency. It was a quick skirmish, possibly a feint. Is he saving his big artillery for later in the battle? Maybe his plan doesn’t call for a massive confrontation at all. Maybe his plan is to slowly sap my fighting capacity through a series of short melees. This war might degenerate into a succession of running battles.

1700: Two Simethicone, two Dulcolax, and another round Miralax-Powerade swill, my will to resist is starting to fade. I’m switching uniforms; this battle is best fought wearing boxers and sweatpants. 

1716: I tried repositioning, but any motion on my part only seems to expose me to another counter movement by the enemy.

1717: Another attack.  

1731: Downing the final glass of liquid death.

1733: Attacked again.

1736: And again.

1740: And again.

1837: No attacks for almost an hour now.

1839: Damn it! Snippers just squirted off a few quick rounds. I jinxed myself. I should have kept my mouth shut.

1901: Final two Dulcolax.

2014: The enemy attacks only sporadically now. This may be my chance to end his assaults by launching my own Fleet enema counterattack to flush out any remaining insurgents that might be lurking deep within the bowels of my own territory.

2345: Sleep, finally.

Thursday, 8 March 2012
Location: Camp Pendleton Naval Hospital

0805: The previous night’s raids left me completely empty and depleted. The enemy had me prostrate. I had been out maneuvered and outflanked. My rear was exposed and vulnerable to attack. He could invade at will. At first, the enemy made a single probing thrust that missed the intended target, but the enemy was experienced and on his next foray he hit the bullseye dead center and bored in, delivering a goring surgical assault, snaking his armored units deep into my interior. I was powerless to resist. The enemy employed some sort of chemical agent that made me weary and drowsy. Helpless, I feel asleep just before the final, penetrating assault.  When I awoke, the enemy had extracted his forces. Finding nothing of interest, he slithered away, soiled, but not defeated.

0915: The fighting is over. I can’t claim victory, but I survived. No peace treaty was signed and the violence could flare up again, in about ten years.

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Thanks to the Fine Gentlemen at Dude Write for presenting me with my first Man Card .