Up the down staircase

Most literary agents and english lit teachers will tell you that it is never a real good idea to write and publish while waiting off the effects of a general anesthetic.

But here at the Blue Heron Bast, we are bareback baby, a high wire act that never edits and always works without a net, so here goes.

The first item on this year's bucket list was to take care of something that I have put off for at least eight years, a comprehensive inspection of my colon. I am proud to tell you that I did so today.

And let me save you the trouble, they found neither my head nor your car keys up my ass. I am sure that they would have told me if they did.

You are supposed to get a colonoscopy at 50. I never did and with my previous cancer history in the general neighborhood I should have.

I met with the nurse practitioner a few weeks ago. He explained the procedure in detail to me and asked if I had any questions. I told him I just wanted to see how big the doctor's hands were and if he trimmed his nails. Was the doctor going to jump right into the operation or would he just hug and hold me tight for a while? Would there be music and mood lighting?

This is a rather intimate area and I can tell you truthfully that his prospective mission was the maiden voyage through the portal in question and my whole lower G.I.. To boldly go where no man (or woman) has ever gone before. I was rather nervous.

I drank the noxious bowel prep last night. Ghastly, even worse than described if you can believe it. Like drinking bile. I hurled twice and once again this morning. When I tell you that my poop canals were sparkling clean, I kid you not. You start shedding liquid in a way that you might think the human physiology incapable. You could eat off my sparkling tubes now.

I gritted my teeth on the long ride to the Colonoscopy Center in Encinitas this morning. You have to drink a gallon or so of water after the asshole cleanser and I thought that I was going to lose it once or twice. Les drove me.

I signed consents and directives and met the anesthesiologist, who was a foreign woman, a real sourpuss with absolutely no sense of humor. I decided to table my bedside patter and better colonoscopy material as I don't think this one had cracked a smile since she witnessed her last lynching in the Teheran square.

I'm like dear god, if something awful happens, please don't let this old bag be the last thing I lay my eyes on this side of the mortal coil.

I eventually did wake up and got the news. All looked good, six polyps, all removed, all hopefully benign, a little diverticulitis, an unmentionable or two. Cool. The doctor was very nice, said I needed to do this more regularly, wants to see me back in three years. I hope they have better tasting prep by then.

Now that I buckled down and did the dirty deed, (did I tell you I crapped myself on the way home?) I can get all smug and tell you that if you are over 50 and have never had one, you need to get one too. Your asshole needs a clean bill of health. This asshole has his.