The Colonoscopy

Colonoscopy: that word which sends shudders down the spine of anyone who has “drunk the drink”—the preparation concoction that cleanses the colon so the doctor can examine it. I am the successful survivor of three such medical marvels. I’ve enjoyed three different preps, and have had two different doctors in different states. Where there’s a will to pretend this isn’t happening, there’s a way, and I’ve made it my mantra to minimize the misery.

THE APPOINTMENT: Pick up the phone. The test and all its turmoil is far better than the cancer. Feel nothing but sheer gratitude that such a preventative procedure exists.

Once you’ve chanted thanksgiving until it's drummed into your brain, your aura should be one of pride: You are proactive in your plan to remain healthy and cancer free! You are in control—but be sure to request enough medication for the procedure to knock you out cold. Make yours the very first appointment of the day. Trust me on this: when you haven’t eaten anything but lemon jell-o and Gatorade for 24 hours and you’ve been awake half the night purging everything out of your system, including the desire to live, you want to get this over with so that you can go back home and have the longest nap of your life.

THE PREP: I’ve chugged the concentrate (2 8-oz drinks that could knock James Bond for a loop, whether shaken OR stirred), I’ve thrown back the pills (6 horse tablets every fifteen minutes) and I’ve faced the jug. They are all forces to be dealt with, but I’d have to say pills are my choice of concoction. You can’t taste tablets.

A friend told me to keep it refrigerated; cold kills the Great Salt Lake flavor. But although the directions on the product indicate that it is “more palatable” when chilled, my doctor’s instructions were specific: Allow it to reach room temperature as you gulp. When I complained to the pharmacist that evening because I could already see that refrigeration was my new best friend to kill the “flavor”, he told me my stomach might constrict were I to leave it cold. So much for that idea.

Pretend like you did in childhood that you hold in your hand the only antidote to the lethal virus that has been introduced by some foreign monkey into our country. You will die if you do not drink this glass within 10 seconds—every ten minutes. You may not stop and you may not lose it into the kitchen sink. It is your only hope. After downing the last drop, you get to marry the prince.


If all else fails and no tricks work, then read the fine print attached to the bottle: It says that if you are unable to hold down the contents, you need to notify your doctor whereupon he will introduce it into your system through your nasal cavity. That’s right—up your nose with a rubber hose, as if one at the other end isn’t enough? This, in my case, was powerful motivation. My father, on the other hand needed more; he mixed his with straight tequila. “It’s clear liquid,” he could uncannily still manage to argue with aplomb. Not a bad plan.

THE BATHROOM: You are going to be there for a while. Light a scented candle, set mouthwash on the counter. Be right in the middle of a gripping book or buy People magazines with inspirational stories of heroism. Trashy teen idol publications work too. If you have more than one bathroom, use the one no one else will—for days.

THE PROCEDURE: A piece of cake! If you are like me for whom the most dreaded part is the IV, ask for a numbing agent on the arm, followed by a tiny shot of local anesthesia under the skin. One minute I was awake, the next I was awake again, getting rid of gas like all the balloons in the movie “UP.” Don’t be shy—everyone is doing it! If you don’t, there isn’t enough Gas-X in the drug store that can soothe your pain.

THE RECOVERY: Stock your pantry. Once home, you’ll pack in food like a starving bear about to hibernate. After your 6-hour nap, that is. Have the bed all ready for you, shutters drawn. Go for the gold. Once I slept from noon until the next morning. I’ve never looked so rested.

THE MORAL: Remember, it’s all about perspective. I just woke up from my afternoon beauty slumber knowing that the things I waste time worrying about simply pale by comparison to the blessing of good health, bounteous dining, and the reassurance that my next colonoscopy appointment is five years away!