Colonoscopy

In politics, it ain’t the crime, it’s the cover-up — but in digestive medicine, it ain’t the procedure, it’s the prep — Go-Lyte, sarcasm? — because nothing about this is lyte, and somewhere there’s a research pharmacist meaner than a hung-over preacher on Monday morning. It’s three o’clock on a mid-July afternoon — two tablets of bisacodyl — the pre-game warm up. Sadly my GI doc has denied my request for an early start — “research shows…” — I drink my first quart of Go-Lyte at six PM — now, my three-hour reign on the commode — a second fucking quart at two AM — begetting an additional reign from two fifteen to four AM — all of this, after one day with just white rice and unseasoned chicken, the next just clear broth and jello — no red or purple, mind you — right now my stomach begs for the Chinese buffet, but I lay on the couch, waiting for the next bathroom sprint, limp as a garden string bean, left out in the July 17th sun, watching old Andy Griffith reruns, but fuck it, it’s worth it — colon cancer, ooops, colorectal cancer to be precise — mortality cause number three for non-smoking males.

Afterwards, I learn three polyps were knocking on the door of my colonic epithelium, despite the no solicitors sign. They had no inkling, they were headed for the reaper via cold snare — twisted little fuckers that they were — modern medicine is great — as is the sausage biscuit and black coffee from Momma’s Boy, I’ll eat in the Volvo — wife driving, while I mumble, “wasn’t bad, but that prep.”

Gary D. Grossman
Medusa’s Kitchen 1–25–23