My husband, Nancy, had another “life-threatening” procedure this morning. The ever-“poopular” colonoscopy. Roto-router. Evacuation. Irrigation. You get the picture.
Sigh. Here we go again.
I’ve had three colonoscopies. I drank that hellacious gallon vat of toxic cocktail and did what comes naturally thereafter. It wasn’t enjoyable, but like childbirth, I sucked it up, made my deposits and carried on with my day. And, during that carnival, my husband was not very understanding. So this would be fun.
I ran to the pharmacy with his prescription for the migration of his matter. I couldn’t wait for him to literally get a taste of his own medicine when he had to force that ick down his gullet.
The pharmacist took the prescription and said: “Oh! This new stuff is flying off the shelves! You only have to drink two 5 ounce drinks and it tastes like oranges …”
What the hell?! Oranges and not anthrax? Why does he get the good stuff?
“Can’t we substitute the gallon of the usual anti-freeze preparation so he can just sample how bad it was for me?! I’ll leave you a big tip!” I thought the pharmacist was going to flip the alarm so I just grabbed his prescription and ran.
And so it began. He had to fast (rolling my eyes) and drink clear liquids or gum gelatin all day. How is this any different from when I was on The South Beach Diet or the Paleo Diet or the 30 Day Dash Diet or the I Want To Slice My Veins Open Diet? He whimpered: ” I’m SO hungry. That chicken broth tastes like urine!”( I didn’t ask the obvious question because I’m assuming it happened on a dark and stormy night at Penn State, 30 years ago).
I gave him Italian ice, popsicles, juice, more urine broth and copious amounts of Jell-O but still he whined. After the first dose of the new and improved evacuator, nothing happened. He griped: “Nothing’s happening! You know I hate to wait for things to happen!”
(That’s a lie. He can wait forever for things to happen. That’s why I bought my own engagement ring, son).
He took the second dose and the panicked bellyaching continued. I went to bed, or pretended to, so I didn’t have to hear him wail any longer. No sooner was I all tucked in and watching Gary Busey, drunkenly cha-cha-ing on “Dancing with the Stars” when I heard a triumphant scream: “WOOHOO! Don’t worry, Maria! The eagle has landed. The eagle has landed!
Apparently the phrase “I pooped” didn’t enter his vernacular during this very challenging Dorito and beer-starved time.
I just do not get it. Why, why, why is it all such a production? If men had to procreate, incubate and deliver another human being, well, we know what would happen.
It’s unbelievable how much higher our threshold is to pain, to bad humor, to nonsense, to hangovers, to dieting, to life.
He finally had his procedure, where they unearthed several Titleist golf balls and a nine iron. I don’t know how they got up there.
The eagle has indeed landed.
And I hope to God he migrates south and stays there until 2019.