A Tale of Courage, Starvation, and Excellent Plumbing

The Dreaded Colonoscopy! 

It all started with two full days of “prepping.”

Which is a polite medical term for thinking about food while not eating food.

Around me, life went on cruelly.

“I made some popcorn.”

”Mom, do you want to try this vegan pumpkin pie?”

“I’m opening a bottle of wine.”

Reader, these people are not my friends.

At 6:00 p.m. the day before, right on schedule, the process began. At first, it was just one innocent bathroom visit. Then another… five minutes later. Then again. And again. Soon, the bathroom became my office, my lounge, and my entire personality.

Gradually, my cellphone moved in.

Then my laptop.

Eventually, even the big-screen TV was angled toward the toilet like this was some sort of exclusive screening room.

Toilets.

Plural.

Am I glad I installed this TOTO? Absolutely. The gentle night-light that welcomes you every time you step in? A true lifesaver.

(No, not Lifesaver®. Never that.)

The Big Day

On the day of the procedure, I was greeted by kind, professional nurses who repeatedly asked me to spell my first name, my last name, and own up to my date of birth.

By the fourth time, I was like, “If I don’t know who I am by now, the paperwork isn’t going to help.”

Soon, I was dressed in a boutique-grade hospital gown, exotic slippers, and a beautiful blue gauzy turban that really brought out my eyes. One nurse even offered to take a photo for posterity. I declined, mostly because I don’t need that popping up in Memories three years from now.

Enter the cast:

•  “sending a camera up your ass, Pompous Ass,” is what I heard — though in reality it was probably just Dr. Pompa, and my drugged brain doing the rhyming.
• Dr. Sun, my anesthesiologist—and truly my only ray of sunshine today. I asked him whether he’d had any casualties in his 35-year career, and whether his answer of “zero” meant none… or whether he was just suffering from a touch of anesthesia-induced amnesia.

My blood pressure? 117/70.

The nurse said, “Hmm, that’s kind of low.”

I said, “Really? After 49 hours of zero sodium, zero sugar, and zero joy?”

Did we also want to discuss my blood sugar, or are we pretending starvation is a vibe?

While waiting to be wheeled in, I sent a few strategically alarming texts to Kumar, Viju, and Panch—just enough to make them worry. No details. Let imagination do the heavy lifting.

And then…

I went under. Which is suspicious, because before I knew it, it was over.

Back in the waiting room. Awake. Lucid. Wondering if the whole thing was a hoax. Honestly, I think they just let me nap and charged my insurance.

The Recovery Phase (a.k.a. Absolute Royalty)

Back home, I am milking this situation for all it’s worth.

“Get me a plated meal.”

“And a fresh lemon squeeze.”

“With just a pinch of kosher salt.”

“Topped off with peach-flavored sparkling water.”

Yes. That’s the prescription.

Everything is perfect—except for that one instruction that appears on every single post-op paperwork:

“No important decisions for 24 hours.”

Which is ironic, because after all that, I feel like I’ve earned the right to decide everything.

Including dessert☹️! 

  .…. from Gita’s Chronicles of Chronically Underwhelming Experiences