My Pooper

Well, it’s colonoscopy time again for ol’ MIB. This will be my second time going under, a second chance for the docs to look up my pooper and make sure I haven’t grown myself any unsightly polyps or tumors. Who knows? Mine might even be the most famous asshole these medical professions have ever entered.

I’ve got a family history of colon cancer on both sides of the family tree so it was important for me start getting tested early. I got my first one at age 45. I was supposed to have my second at 50, but we were moving and I didn’t have a doctor and it got put off until now when I am 52 and still very attractive. As far as cancers go, colon cancer is one of your better ones. When caught early, it’s highly treatable. Even when caught later, the five year survival rate is high. At the moment, I’m still weighing my options about which cancer to get, but I’m definitely considering colon.

Is it weird that I enjoy the whole process of getting a colonoscopy? Yes, the laxatives you have to drink are a bit dreadful but I don’t really mind my butt acting as a fire hydrant for a few hours twice a decade. It feels cleansing. Throw a daylong fast on top of that and you’re about this close to a Sonoma-style retreat that some New Agers would pay thousands for. Consequently, colonoscopy prep somehow feels virtuous? Or, if not virtuous, then at least healthful, the way eating spirulina feels virtuous and healthful. (For the record, I don’t know exactly what spirulina is, but I think it’s good for you.)

Tomorrow is the actual procedure. That’s the part I really enjoy because I love going under. It’s like being practice dead. I remember when Michael Jackson died from an overdose of propofol, and everybody was like, “Why was he taking that?” Reader, if I had as much money as that dude, I’d have a doctor putting me in a medically-induced coma every night, too.

I don’t quite understand the appeal of slipping into that deep, synthetic blackness, but I definitely find it appealing. One minute you’re present in the world, the next you’re counting backwards from ten and before you get to seven, kid, you’re gone. But you don’t even know it because before you realize you’re under, you’re already coming out of it, groggy and probably acting a little silly. Then it’s home to bed for a few hours with, hopefully, a clean bill of health and some spic-and-span intestines. And then, after your afternoon under the sheets, you get to eat!

Doesn’t that sound great?

There’s always the chance that they will puncture my insides and I’ll die on the operating table, but isn’t a small chance of death worth a large dose of propofol? You bet it is. I suppose there’s also the chance they will find something insidious up there, but I’ll try not to dwell too much on the probability of that. If they do find something, I’m going to assume I’ll be fine because why not? I’ve been fine up to this point in my life. Let’s just assume inertia will keep me living forever.

All this to say, if you are of a certain age, you should get a colonoscopy, too. People die needless deaths from this shit (no pun intended). It’s easy and, as I said, kind of fun. Plus, it gives you an excuse to do nothing for the day. Even if you’re not a forklift operator or in charge of other heavy machinery, the fact is you will be in no condition to do much when you return of the land of the living. It’s a perfect excuse to eat grilled cheese and watch Schitt’s Creek. I generally don’t need an excuse to do nothing, but I’m happy to have one. Anyway, this is just meant to be an upbeat public service announcement. Now if you’ll excuse, I’ve got to turn on the fire hydrant.