As I march forth in my ill-conceived and clumsy endeavor to age gracefully, I find it only necessary to begin taking part in all of the activities which are required for men of my gender and age to undergo.
I spent my late 20’s, all of my 30’s, and a better part of my 40’s doing “Dad-related” things focused around tormenting the kids with cold water wake-ups, undesirable chores, asset seizures, and general harassment. All of that was done in an effort to impress on the kids that a healthy self-esteem will only get them so far in life. Ya gotta put up with some shit as well.
Now that particular phase of my life of molding lumps of clay is near completion, it’s time to focus my extra-curricular efforts on me. What better way to do that than to have grown men other than me shove things up my butt?
That’s right people.
I got a colonoscopy this last week, and I’ve opted to utilize this prime piece of real estate on the vast worldwide web to tell you all about it.
Understand at this point that you’ve been warned. The verbal brilliance that follows contains challenging and potentially troubling descriptions of events which may test those among my beloved readership who possess delicate constitutions.
Translation: Some of the following stuff you’re about to read is gross.
The harbinger has done his job. Let’s move on.
Full disclosure, Wifey doesn’t appreciate me referring to her raised bed planter as a slop trough.
When the dog bellies up to it like I do at a Mexican food buffet, I’ve got to call it as I see it.
At the time, I was embroiled in a epic battle with a sinus infection. So much so that my traditional method of treating such a malady (ignore it until it goes away) was not working. The TharpSter Dad made a comment or two about the constant hacking, sniffling, and irritability. Within a few days, people at work were making the same comments.
“Fine. I’ll go to the doctor.”
It turns out I hadn’t been to the doctor for me alone in seven years. Obviously ignoring symptoms works. Score one for being a typical man who doesn’t want to be poked and prodded in the name of health and wellness.
Quick side note. Right now, the noise being funneled into my skull via blue tooth is a guitar solo performed by Slash. I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you right here and now that I’m going to see Guns N Roses in less than a week. More to come.
So there I was at the doctor explaining that I hadn’t been sick enough to seek out medical attention in the last 7 years. At this point my streak was over, and I needed some antibiotics to kill this stupid sinus infection, gosh darnnit.
The doctor proceeded to advise me that I needed to come in for a full work-up and physical, complete with blood work and a finger up the butt.
*pause for effect*
The doctor capped off the statement about my need for a physical exam with the phrase “finger up the butt”.
“That’s a one way route, Doc, and the direction you’re suggesting is in direct contradiction to the route’s design.” At least that’s what I wish I had said.
Six weeks later on the day after my birthday, because I personally don’t want a finger up my butt on my birthday, I went to the doctor and got a finger up my butt.
*puckers a little*
At the same time, I inadvertently provided the doctor with a sounding board in which to deliver his diatribe about society’s excessive reliance on technology today, namely smart phones. He also alluded to the possibility that the Russians were successful in an election hack recently. “That’s all well and good, Doc.” I responded. “All things being equal, can you take your finger out of my butt? I mean in all reality, this all started with a sinus infection.”
Sadly, it didn’t end there. Something the doctor found in my butt aside from his finger gave him just cause to refer me to a butt doctor.
Ladies and gentlemen, I know that medical professionals who specialize in the gastrointestinal arts pursue a noble venture and a necessary evil. At the same time, I just can’t fathom the idea that young doctors in training endeavor to look at assholes all day.
My butt doctor just happens to share a name with probably the most famous boxer in the world. Out of respect for his privacy and the assertions (or insertions) I make here, I’ll change his name and refer to him as Rocky.
A few weeks later, I visited Rocky and told him about what the doctor I frequently neglect to visit had found in my butt. I also told him about the family medical history, namely the existence of colon cancer on the TharpSter Dad’s side. It was recommended at that point that I get a colonoscopy.
“That’s a one way route, Rocky, and the direction you’re suggesting is in direct contradiction to the route’s design.” Again, that’s the response I wish I would have provided. One thing I’ve learned about myself through this ordeal is that my quick wit tends to jettison itself when people start talking about putting stuff in my butt.
So we scheduled a procedure. We then rescheduled the procedure based on some things going on at work which necessitated my presence. Deep down, we all know I was nervous about the premise of having something put up my butt.
But then, the time came. I just needed to put my big boy pants on (take them off actually), and get it over with.
Now anyone who’s ever had a colonoscopy or is familiar with the process will know that the only way that Rocky and his contemporaries can do what they need to do is to ensure the colon is cleaned out and free of debris. The most humane way of doing that short of bellying up to a Mexican food buffet or other slop trough is to do it chemically.
Picture this people. Not only are there young medical professionals who endeavor to look at assholes all day, there are also those who want to create chemical compounds which will completely evacuate your colon in the most harmless way possible.
In preparation for my procedures on Thursday, I started a clear liquid diet on Wednesday. The chaser to that diet was the introduction of the chemicals necessary to completely clean me out. I had two six ounce dosages, one of which to be taken at 5pm the day before, and the other one at 1:30 am the morning of the procedure.
For you, my beloved reader, I kept a diary of the event and I’m going to share it now.
Wednesday, 08/30 –
5:30 am – Sleep eludes me. I turn Capt America Civil War on…
7:00 am – Moving poop accented by great underboob shots on The Chive
8:40 am – Strange enough, another morning poop. I’m like a hobbit & 2nd breakfast. Must have been the late protein bar and Mean Bean I had last night @ 9:30. Not usually my thing. On to some orange Jello & household items while playing my podcasts.
6:50 pm – Again. Sounds like I’m peeing.
7:25 pm – Ditto to the above. Somethin is starting to feel raw.
8:20 pm – And here, we, go. After a couple of blasts I know I’m done when nothing else comes out on a push. Go figure it’s all clear.
Thursday, 08/31 –
2:30 am – I just finished my 1:30 prep. I’ve been watching “Disjointed” on Netflix for the last hour standing up while drinking that crap. The show has every stupid pot stereotype joke in it. Maybe it’s the prep. Maybe it’s the fact I don’t use pot. Maybe it’s the bit I heard yesterday on Cato about the real pot problems Colorado is having. I just wasn’t impressed. I’m so tired. Knowing I’ll be on the hopper for the next few hours is painful. Let’s just get this butt probe over with.
3:30 am – Last prep complete. From here in the hopper I can hear water running outside. I need to change that defective spigot when this is all over.
5:00 am – Man I’m tired.
5:30 am – Hopefully the last hoorah here. I’m sick of this shit.
8:50 am – It’s over now. I’m back home & back on the thrown [sic] for some leftover seepage. I’ve resumed my lemon poppy seed muffin & Mean Bean.
All went well with the colonoscopy.
Nested lovingly within the procedure notes provide by Rocky was the following phrase:
“There was an excellent bowel prep present providing high-quality visualization of the colonic mucosa.”