Carnes: Not really a pain in the …
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
The words were said with a smile, and I knew exactly what she was thinking, so I quickly agreed.
“I’ll race you.”
Again, that smile. “You’re on,” I replied.
We both stood immediately, I gave a wink, and we were off, our destination calling us with the flirtatious whims of a middle-aged couple now living as empty nesters.
She arrived first, her unmentionables revealed quicker than Trump denying a direct quote.
So, yeah, I had to make it to another bathroom as quickly as possible.
Thus went the entire day last Wednesday, as my beautiful wife and I prepared for “His & Her” colonoscopies at the Vail Valley Surgery Center in Edwards.
And to think, some dare accuse me of not being romantic.
This was my second, and I must admit it was much easier this time around. No more nasty drinks called “Poop-B-Gone” 24 hours prior, just simple Gatorade with a little Miralax mixed in to get the liquid train rolling down the southern track.
Remaining, however, was the inevitable, yet unenviable, constant trips back and forth to visit Sir John, and of course, the fear of pooping in one’s PJ’s during intermittent sleep sessions.
That part still sucked.
But the knock-out juice the next morning, man I’m telling you it is a miracle of modern science, right up there with DNA sequencing and auto-flush toilets. One nurse told me — and I’m paraphrasing — it is the same stuff used to kill Michael Jackson, only in a controlled environment.
Ten years ago they told me to count down from 100, and I made it halfway to 97.
This time, during my feeble attempt at a joke about sneezing with all the bells and whistles attached, someone in a mask says, “OK, here comes the anesthe…”
And my next memory was in the recovery room, waking from a wonderful nap and wondering where my partner-in-poop was at that very moment.
The good Doctor “L” (using his actual name — Laird – might provide him with unwanted attention at this point), was the same pro that inspected my nether region 10 years ago.
Pulling back the “Hush Curtain” (a cute name for what is really nothing more than a retractable drape in place to prevent other patients from staring at each other, wondering, “What’s wrong with that guy?”), his first comment was a romantic pun about the two of us being in side-by-side rooms, the curtain between us pulled back, and close enough to hold hands if we really stretched.
If that doesn’t ignite a romantic flame, I don’t know what does.
Anyway, if you’re old enough to have owned a pair of bellbottom jeans, you need to be screened for colon cancer. It is second in deaths only to lung cancer, yet can be easily cured in most instances, but only if caught in the early stages.
And if you ignore the gastronomical issues, the process is quick and absolutely painless, barring a few dozen extra trips to the Iron Throne.
OK, it’s porcelain, but either way, it’s still better than taking a Boeing 737 Max for a vacation in the Dominican Republic.
Not as romantic perhaps, but at least you have a better chance of making it home alive.
Richard Carnes, of Avon, writes weekly. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.