Gut feeling indicates author one of lucky ones
The colon is a 5-foot long inner tube that is the last part of your guts and mine and is responsible for solid, liquid and gaseous emissions and combinations thereof. The average colon can cause constipation, arguments, bloating, embarrassment, meditation, concentration, determination, sloth, relief, pain and pure or impure joy – take your pick.
A colonoscopy, which costs about $288.94 per running foot, is a medical procedure invented and performed by, in my opinion, an underpaid doctor who is inquisitive and daring enough to look into the colon with a scope, provided you can guarantee him you’re not full of it or it’s not full or something like that.
This special doctor is very anal about what he or she does once they get by it if you know what I mean. And who hopefully has perfected the art of putting a pretty much clean hose that is 5 feet long with a camera and a flashlight glued on the end of it up one’s back side into one’s rather surprised colon after your colon is pumped up with enough air to get you to the moon.
The thought of which immediately had me thinking about my cousin the attorney Stephen Jensen who is into astrology and patents. I knew if the procedure backfired, I might end up on the moon and be his hero, and it might lead to a patent.
So I went for it.
This God-blessed doctor, for some reason, is interested in taking a look around at stuff up in there and taking pictures, snipping out stuff that doesn’t belong and then to my understanding just basically peering. Better him than me.
Maybe my psychiatrist can explain why I never wanted to do that, but I am thankful that there are doctors who follow their bliss, and that’s where it takes them.
Me? Personally I’d rather visit Lynn’s Garden Center and peer around in there.
Anyways, not only is this doctor good at knowing what he or she is looking at, but has also got the patient preparation side of things for the procedure down pat. That would be me. The patient self-preparation consists of an entire week of anticipation, consternation, self-deprivation, starvation, elimination, humiliation and some memorization stuff, and a bunch of rules you have to follow which is not my forte.
When you arrive for your procedure, after they make you starve and dehydrate yourself for 24 hours, they ask you some qualifying questions: “Did you bring the $150 down payment with you that we didn’t tell you about?”
I’m like, “yes – how could I forget that?”
Do you have a designated driver? I said “yes I think my wife is sober.”
“Have you taken the pills and drank the concoction that leaves you feeling empty and scared?” I said, “yes, quite frankly it was fun.”
Then – “did you drink anything purple or red or take any pills that could make you bleed?” I’m like, “I am color blind and feel exsanguinated,” which had them scurrying for a dictionary.
Then someone asked me, “Can I have your name?” I said “No, I need it!” Then they actually asked me my name three more times which I surprisingly got right all three times.
They then put a wrist band on me with the name I gave them on it. Then I had to confess to what pills I had taken in the last 24 hours and exactly when I took them. I am retired and don’t own a watch, so I never keep track of that kind of malarkey so I made stuff up. I did tell them about most of the pills but left out the whiskey and the Point Bock beer part which they probably figured out later.
They were especially interested in how well the pills and potion worked that kept me close to home or more specifically my throne. I told them I never left my castle and felt like a King.
And then much to my surprise they wanted to know “what procedure are you having done?” I’m like, “you don’t know?” But I must have guessed correctly because they proceeded with their shenanigans.
I then told them that I liked and appreciated the surgery socks they gave me with the rubber cleats on the bottom that made me feel like I was in the Green Bay Packers locker room and my colonoscopy gown with the flowers on it that they made me put on backwards which got me thinking.
Then I told them not only how I suffered through a basketball game at the Trev and Sam Show over at Stevens Point Area Senior High School without eating popcorn but a movie, too.
So then after I kissed my sober wife goodbye a sleep specialist who also must have passed a lot of gas that day appeared and looked at my credentials and wrist band and said, “are you Tom Jensen?” I said “I am beginning to wonder.”
After I answered a few more trick questions correctly and smarted off a bit more, he was satisfied he could safely pass gas and actually quite honestly seemed quite eager to put me to sleep.
Then the official butt scrubber specialist appeared with what looked like, without my glasses on, a bucket, a brush, a wet-vac and maybe even a mop. She was either named Janet, Kim or Joyce or maybe she didn’t sign the thank you card I was given after the procedure was over and I had produced a series of gold medal “farts” on command.
That was the first time in my life I got a thank you card for “farting.” Usually I get reprimanded if I do that out loud. I much prefer “laughing in your pants” which is much classier and has a ring to it.
Finally my doctor appeared and said, “you’re Tom Jensen.” I said “finally, someone who knows who I am.” So I was put to sleep, told to count to 100, made it to 1 then woke back up. Now I am confused.
The nice-smelling doctor was smiling which made me come to a bit, and he looked like he had just been through something which I figured must have been me. The bucket and mop were gone along with the wet-vac, and I was bloated and ready for lift off.
Then a nice-looking odorless waitress with a hair net on and teeth and blue paper shoes came in with a glass of orange juice, no beer, a cup of chicken dumpling soup, a sandwich and some clothes in a laundry basket that looked just like mine. She then ordered me to “fart,” which pleased me to no end, so I obeyed with force.
Then a kind woman who looked just like my wife carefully approached me, asked me why I had my pants on backwards and said I looked familiar and was acting normal which made me appreciate that she was willing to claim me once again.
So in the end, and I mean it, I had a colonoscopy which I can’t remember, entertained a bunch of nice people at the hospital for free, got to pretend I was on the Green Bay Packers while in a dress, and so far am still married to my designated driver and living with her at her house, all of which reminded me of what my aunt Yodi Jensen says when things go our way, and I quote: “Aren’t we the lucky ones?”
I guess so Aunt Yodi – we indeed are.