Lynn's colonoscopy journal:
====================== Posted by dollydolots (My Page) on Fri, Oct 15, 10 at 13:29 My doctor called the surgeon's office to make an appointment for a colonoscopy. A couple weeks later in the surgeon's office, he showed me a color diagram of the colon, a lengthy organ that appears to go all over the place, at one point passing briefly through Vancouver. Then my surgeon explained the colonoscopy procedure to me in a thorough, reassuring and patient manner. I nodded thoughtfully, but I didn't really hear anything he said, because my brain was shrieking, quote, 'HE'S GOING TO STICK A TUBE 17,000 FEET LONG UP YOUR BEHIND!' I left the surgeon's office with some written instructions, and a prescription for a product called 'CoLyte,' which comes in a plastic jug large enough to hold a microwave oven. I will discuss CoLyte in detail later; for now suffice it to say that we must never allow it to fall into the hands of our country's enemies. It's a weapon of mass destruction. I spent the next many weeks productively sitting around being nervous, waiting for my colonoscopy booking date. Then, on the day before my colonoscopy, I began my preparation. In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any solid food that day; all I had was chicken broth, which is basically water, only with less flavor. Then, in the afternoon at 2:00 p.m., I took the CoLyte. You mix white powder together in a four-litre plastic jug, then you fill it with water. (For those unfamiliar with the metric system, a litre is about 32 gallons). Then you have to drink the whole jug... 1 cup every 10 minutes until it's all gone. I used the timer on my stove. This procedure takes at least a couple of hours, and CoLyte tastes - and here I am being kind - like a mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of pineapple. The instructions for CoLyte, clearly written by somebody with a great sense of humor, state that after you drink it, 'a loose, watery bowel movement may result.' This is kind of like saying that after you jump off your roof, you may experience contact with the ground. CoLyte is a nuclear laxative. I don't want to be too graphic, here, but: have you ever seen a space-shuttle launch? This is pretty much the CoLyte experience, with you as the shuttle. There are times when you wish the commode had a seat belt. You spend several hours pretty much confined to the bathroom, spurting violently. You eliminate everything, especially your pride. And then, when you figure you must be totally empty, you have to drink another liter of CoLyte, at which point, as far as I can tell, your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have not even eaten yet. After an action-packed evening of entertaining my parents, who were amused by my endless dance back and forth to the bathroom, I finally got to sleep. WARNING: DO NOT TAKE A SLEEPING PILL AT THE SAME TIME YOU START TAKING COLYTE!! The next morning my parents drove me to the clinic. I was very nervous. Not only was I worried about the procedure, but I had been experiencing occasional return bouts of CoLyte spurtage. I was thinking, 'What if I spurt on the surgeon?' How do you apologize to a doctor for something like that? Flowers would not be enough and how would I explain a pink daisy sticking out of my butt? At the clinic I had to sign many forms acknowledging that I understood and totally agreed with whatever the heck the forms said. Then they led me to a room full of other colonoscopy people, where I went inside a little curtained space and took off my clothes and put on one of those hospital garments designed by sadist perverts, the kind that, when you put it on, makes you feel even more naked than when you are actually naked. Then a male nurse named Dr. Frankenstein put a little needle in a vein in my left hand. Ordinarily I would have fainted, but Frankenstein was very good, and I was already lying down. Frankenstein also told me that some people put vodka in their CoLyte. Now why didn't I think of that?! At first I was ticked off that I hadn't thought of this, but then I pondered what would happen if you got yourself too tipsy to make it to the bathroom, so you were staggering around in full Fire Hose Mode. Have you ever seen a fire hose on the loose? You would have no choice but to burn your house. When everything was ready, my surgeon came in with two nurses. I did not see the 17,000-foot tube, but I knew the surgeon had it hidden around there somewhere. I was seriously nervous at this point. Frankenstein had me roll over on my left side, and then someone stuck an oxygen hose in my nostrils. I was hoping it was helium to lighten up the situation but they didn't have the same sense of humor. They had a mission... and it had everything to do with that 17,000-foot hose they were hiding. I think they were Colonoscopy Nazis. There was music playing in the room, and I realized that the song was 'Tube Snake Boogie' by ZZ Top. I remarked to my doctor that, of all the songs that could be playing during this particular procedure, 'Tube Snake Boogie' had to be the least appropriate. 'You want me to turn it up?' said my doctor, from somewhere behind me. 'Ha ha,' I said. And then it was time, the moment I had been dreading for more than a decade. If you are squeamish, prepare yourself, because I am going to tell you, in explicit detail, exactly what it was like. I have no idea. Really. I slept through it. One moment, ZZ Top was yelling 'Boogie Woogie All Night Long' and the next moment, I was back in the other room, waking up in a very mellow mood. A nurse was looking down at me and asking me how I felt. I felt excellent! I felt even more excellent when she told me that it was all over, and that my colon had passed with flying colors. I have never been prouder of an internal organ. - the end - A physician claimed that the following are actual comments made by his patients (predominately male) while he was performing their colonoscopies: 1. 'Take it easy, Doc. You're boldly going where no man has gone before! 2. 'Found Amelia Earhart yet?' 3. 'Can you hear me NOW?' 4. 'Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?' 5. 'You know, in Arkansas , we're now legally married.' 6. 'Any sign of the trapped miners, Chief?' 7. 'You put your left hand in, you take your left hand out...' 8. 'Hey! Now I know how a Muppet feels!' 9. 'If your hand doesn't fit, you must quit! 10. 'Hey Doc, let me know if you find my dignity.' 11. 'You used to be an executive at Enron, didn't you?' And the best one of all. 12. 'Could you write a note for my wife saying that my head is not up there?' |
The Marlen Chronicles: July 4th Mystery Revealed
Posted by Marlen (My Page) on Sun, Jul 6, 03 at 17:16 They got me and they got me good!
This will be as long as the day that was.
I got all decked out for the fiesta in my patriotic finest, got all the food I had cooked ready to travel, then called DH to load up the van. In his typical helpful fashion he announced, 'We ain't got #@$%^&* no catering truck!' After much grumbling, we arrived at our destination and I was elated to see several relatives from out of town whom I had not expected to see. Oh, so that's it, I thought. How nice! Then I saw the Pakistani couple and I knew immediately what they were up to.
You see, a couple of months ago I reached my 100th mark. No, not in years, in Americans. Since 1972 to date, I have helped 100 people from 14 different countries to become American citizens. I teach them citizenship classes, I help them fill out the application, I take them to have their photographs and fingerprints taken, I translate all legal documents for official presentation to the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service, and I see them thorough the interview to the swearing in ceremony. I do it because my beloved adopted country can use all the good people it can get and I had nobody to help me when I went through the process myself. Many of the 100 are family and friends, and others were strangers who became friends, like the Pakistani couple whom I met in a Chicago supermarket. And they were there! 61 of the 100 - to party with me!! What joy!!!
They flew in from California, Nevada, Colorado, Illinois, New Jersey, New York and Massachusetts.
They drove in from Georgia and all over Northern Florida. And one by one stood up to tell me what it meant for them to be Americans and handed me a thank you note. I also received thank you cards from those who could not be with us, 100 cards in all!!
I was sobbing shamelessly all throughout. Just when I thought I could not take any more, I was forced to.
The first of the 100, a cousin, came right up to me and said, 'From 100 Americans to a great American,' and shoved a velvet box in my face. I opened it to find a beautiful gold ring with three gemstones: a ruby, a diamond and a blue sapphire! Red, white and blue. Just like my heart and soul. They had all chipped in to get it for me!
I could not breathe and thought I was going to pass out. Another cousin, a doctor, rushed to take my pulse, my mother kept fanning me with her apron, and DH kept telling me to drink water, as if swallowing was an option with a huge lump in my throat. Nobody thought of handing me tissues to wipe the snots off my face, so I had to sacrifice my mother's apron.
The waterproof mascara held up but the entire front of my blouse was wet from tears. DH, ever the thoughtful, loving husband, added to my fond memory of the moment by loudly announcing that I looked like the big loser at a nursing home wet T-shirt contest. They all laughed and I forced myself to smile. I sure hope he ate enough there because it will be a cold day in hell before I cook again for that moron!
Then it was time to eat. I was concerned about the Pakistanis because the only people they knew there were DH and me. But I needn't have worried. I turned to see the husband getting bongo drum lessons from one of the uncles while his wife was happily shoveling Cuban garbanzo salad into her mouth. All was well in the international arena!
The one crazy uncle dressed up again. He has been Uncle Sam, Kate Smith and John Wayne among others. This year, he came as Miss America. He wore a 2-piece swim suit which left plenty of room for the fat rolls from his belly to jiggle freely. He had a sash made of white crepe paper and wore one of those gold cardboard crowns you see on people on New Year's Eve. He had red lipstick smeared all over the bottom of his face a la Bozo the Clown. He looked like a drag queen victim from one of those Friday the 13th movies. If he had been the real Miss America, I am sure many of us would have given up our U.S. citizenship to go back where we came from!
I was once again elected unanimously to lead us into our traditional conga line. I said okay, but announced that, unlike last year, I was not going to stop the dancing to organize rescue efforts for any drunk who felled into the pool. Somehow, they managed to stay dry.
Sadly, we did have a near drowning later on. My dog Max (aka Frito Bandido because he steals food) was pilfering a hot dog from the buffet table when one of the great aunts turned, was startled and shrieked in his face. The dog freaked out, turned tail, ran amok and felled right into the pool still chomping on the hot dog. He would have been just fine if we had left him alone to swim out on his own. But no!!! I screamed that my baby was drowning, the kids jumped in to save him, thereby splashing all over him and grabbing every inch of his wet fur, the parents screamed and dove in after the kids, and it took 10 times as long to fish the poor dog out. As soon as he was on firm ground, Max ran to cower under my wheelchair, and promptly puked at my feet. He now needs the services of a therapist to get over his fear of water and screaming old women. He lost his dignity and his patriotic bandanna. And he also needs a dye job. He went into the pool a lovely golden blonde and came o!
ut platinum from all the chlorine.
After eating, the women gathered to exchange recipes and the men gathered to plan, yet again, the liberation of Cuba. Even the Pakistani offered suggestions. This so endeared him to the crowd that he was gifted with a pair of maracas. Heads up, Chicago! On its way to you is is a bongo-playing Pakistani with maracas shouting Cuba Si, Castro No! His wife has recipes to make flan and black beans and rice. So be afraid, Chicago! Be very afraid!
The rest is a blur of food, music, dancing, laughing, hugging and kissing.
I told DH I was never taking the ring off. He said I had to for sleeping, or I might accidentally turn in my sleep and slash his face. I told him if that happen it would not be an accident and he could get himself a hockey goalie mask and sleep in that. He said it might freak out the dogs.
It won't. The dogs have seen us both naked and haven't freaked out from that so they'd be fine.
Hope you all had a glorious 4th as well!
This will be as long as the day that was.
I got all decked out for the fiesta in my patriotic finest, got all the food I had cooked ready to travel, then called DH to load up the van. In his typical helpful fashion he announced, 'We ain't got #@$%^&* no catering truck!' After much grumbling, we arrived at our destination and I was elated to see several relatives from out of town whom I had not expected to see. Oh, so that's it, I thought. How nice! Then I saw the Pakistani couple and I knew immediately what they were up to.
You see, a couple of months ago I reached my 100th mark. No, not in years, in Americans. Since 1972 to date, I have helped 100 people from 14 different countries to become American citizens. I teach them citizenship classes, I help them fill out the application, I take them to have their photographs and fingerprints taken, I translate all legal documents for official presentation to the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service, and I see them thorough the interview to the swearing in ceremony. I do it because my beloved adopted country can use all the good people it can get and I had nobody to help me when I went through the process myself. Many of the 100 are family and friends, and others were strangers who became friends, like the Pakistani couple whom I met in a Chicago supermarket. And they were there! 61 of the 100 - to party with me!! What joy!!!
They flew in from California, Nevada, Colorado, Illinois, New Jersey, New York and Massachusetts.
They drove in from Georgia and all over Northern Florida. And one by one stood up to tell me what it meant for them to be Americans and handed me a thank you note. I also received thank you cards from those who could not be with us, 100 cards in all!!
I was sobbing shamelessly all throughout. Just when I thought I could not take any more, I was forced to.
The first of the 100, a cousin, came right up to me and said, 'From 100 Americans to a great American,' and shoved a velvet box in my face. I opened it to find a beautiful gold ring with three gemstones: a ruby, a diamond and a blue sapphire! Red, white and blue. Just like my heart and soul. They had all chipped in to get it for me!
I could not breathe and thought I was going to pass out. Another cousin, a doctor, rushed to take my pulse, my mother kept fanning me with her apron, and DH kept telling me to drink water, as if swallowing was an option with a huge lump in my throat. Nobody thought of handing me tissues to wipe the snots off my face, so I had to sacrifice my mother's apron.
The waterproof mascara held up but the entire front of my blouse was wet from tears. DH, ever the thoughtful, loving husband, added to my fond memory of the moment by loudly announcing that I looked like the big loser at a nursing home wet T-shirt contest. They all laughed and I forced myself to smile. I sure hope he ate enough there because it will be a cold day in hell before I cook again for that moron!
Then it was time to eat. I was concerned about the Pakistanis because the only people they knew there were DH and me. But I needn't have worried. I turned to see the husband getting bongo drum lessons from one of the uncles while his wife was happily shoveling Cuban garbanzo salad into her mouth. All was well in the international arena!
The one crazy uncle dressed up again. He has been Uncle Sam, Kate Smith and John Wayne among others. This year, he came as Miss America. He wore a 2-piece swim suit which left plenty of room for the fat rolls from his belly to jiggle freely. He had a sash made of white crepe paper and wore one of those gold cardboard crowns you see on people on New Year's Eve. He had red lipstick smeared all over the bottom of his face a la Bozo the Clown. He looked like a drag queen victim from one of those Friday the 13th movies. If he had been the real Miss America, I am sure many of us would have given up our U.S. citizenship to go back where we came from!
I was once again elected unanimously to lead us into our traditional conga line. I said okay, but announced that, unlike last year, I was not going to stop the dancing to organize rescue efforts for any drunk who felled into the pool. Somehow, they managed to stay dry.
Sadly, we did have a near drowning later on. My dog Max (aka Frito Bandido because he steals food) was pilfering a hot dog from the buffet table when one of the great aunts turned, was startled and shrieked in his face. The dog freaked out, turned tail, ran amok and felled right into the pool still chomping on the hot dog. He would have been just fine if we had left him alone to swim out on his own. But no!!! I screamed that my baby was drowning, the kids jumped in to save him, thereby splashing all over him and grabbing every inch of his wet fur, the parents screamed and dove in after the kids, and it took 10 times as long to fish the poor dog out. As soon as he was on firm ground, Max ran to cower under my wheelchair, and promptly puked at my feet. He now needs the services of a therapist to get over his fear of water and screaming old women. He lost his dignity and his patriotic bandanna. And he also needs a dye job. He went into the pool a lovely golden blonde and came o!
ut platinum from all the chlorine.
After eating, the women gathered to exchange recipes and the men gathered to plan, yet again, the liberation of Cuba. Even the Pakistani offered suggestions. This so endeared him to the crowd that he was gifted with a pair of maracas. Heads up, Chicago! On its way to you is is a bongo-playing Pakistani with maracas shouting Cuba Si, Castro No! His wife has recipes to make flan and black beans and rice. So be afraid, Chicago! Be very afraid!
The rest is a blur of food, music, dancing, laughing, hugging and kissing.
I told DH I was never taking the ring off. He said I had to for sleeping, or I might accidentally turn in my sleep and slash his face. I told him if that happen it would not be an accident and he could get himself a hockey goalie mask and sleep in that. He said it might freak out the dogs.
It won't. The dogs have seen us both naked and haven't freaked out from that so they'd be fine.
Hope you all had a glorious 4th as well!