Step-Two

And so begins Step-Two of the great colonscopy caper, namely that it’s Linda’s turn.
As in my case, it isn’t really the invasion of one’s butt that’s abhorrent.
It’s the preparation, mainly the blowout.
That comes with a powerful laxative, phoso-soda, the so-called blowout elixir, liquid so salty it’s like drinking sea-water.
As I did, we mixed the phoso-soda with apple-juice, which in my case made drinking it somewhat bearable.
Linda had a hard time getting it down. She managed to drink half; but wanted to skip the other half.
“What difference could it make?” she asked.
“A lot!” I said. “The idea is to drink it all in one shot; then none is left.”
The results are rather immediate. Within minutes you’re sitting on the can filling it with vile green fluid. “Turn on the fans!”
Two administrations are required: one at noon, and one at 6 p.m. (Both yesterday.) You also can’t eat anything.
The goal, I guess, is an empty colon (bowl). It took me at least three days to recover from it.
It also left me with a tendency to get cold; no fuel.
Linda didn’t seem to have this. Preparation (blowout) didn’t seem to be traumatic to her.
The appointment was at 7:30 a.m., which meant leaving the house at the crack-of-dawn — the appointment was at Thompson Hospital in Canandaigua, across the street from the PT, a 20-25 minute trip.
After checking-in, we sat down in the waiting-room, and after 20 minutes my wife was lead away for the procedure.
I was left in the waiting-room about 45 minutes, entertained by an old guy with his wife who he kept referring to as “the Boss.”
Finally the old guy was lead away, and Granny came in; accompanied by whimpering granddaughter, afflicted by all kinds of maladies.
Granny was in her 80s, and in much better shape than granddaughter, who acted like her life was over (weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth).
What this proves to me is you’re only as sick as you think you are; that Granny felt very much alive.
Granny and “the Boss” knew each-other, so swapped complaints about the sorry state of healthcare out in the sticks.
“We switched out of Honeoye Falls,” said Granny. “Them guys are turkeys.”
“So where ya goin’ now?” the Boss asked.
“Branchport,” Granny said. (Branchport is really far out.)
Finally I was led by a nurse to my wife’s gurney, where I encountered my ever-faithful, tough-as-nails wife, who despite my being an uncaring liberial I’ve been with almost 39 years, clearly hospitalized, somewhat waylaid by the sedation that came with the procedure. —This means an I-V in her wrist, an automated blood-pressure cuff, the frumpy dish-rag smock; all the paraphernalia of hospitalization.
No doubt this was what Linda was greeted with when I was in the hospital after the stroke.
It’s somewhat frightening; although I can’t possibly feel attached, as an unromantic — after all, it’s only been 39 years of sharing living-expenses.
I was directed to sit in a chair next to her gurney — where I was entertained by the people behind the curtain in the next stall.
An aging Granny had had a stomach-assessment of some sort, and sounded rather punch-drunk.
“The doctor has prescribed two Prevacids per day, but your health-insurance will only pay for one,” the nurse said.
“So what we’re gonna do is give you a scrip for the once-a-day, and a card to get samples for the second. I guess we’ll have to write this all down.”
“Uh-Duh..........”
“Is anyone here to take you home?”
“My son is out in the waiting-room; uh-duh..........”
Son came in and sounded as wonky as his mother.
The doctor appeared, and said mother needed to go on a high-fiber diet.
“Ya hear that, Ma? They’re putting you on a high-fiber diet.”
“Uh-duh,” mother said.
“So what’s a high-fiber diet?” son asked. “She’s been eating Jello and pudding.”
“We’ll give you a menu,” the nurse said. “I don’t think you’ll find Jello and pudding on it.”
“So how about an ice-cream diet?” son asked. “That’s got fiber in it.”
Uh, yeah. Keep a straight face. No snide comments. No laughing. It wasn’t easy.