SHOULD I WEAR MAKEUP TO MY COLONOSCOPY?

Should I wear makeup to my colonoscopy?  Not there.  You know, on my face.  What’s the protocol for Proctology? 

I prepped the entire day before.  Following my breakfast of Dulcolax, I mixed up the prescribed dreadful concoction, drank a cup every fifteen minutes…gagged the last eight ounces down, followed by the lifesaving 16 ounces of  apple juice.   At first, the brew tasted like a lemon-lime drink; by the last gulp, it tasted like sanitized sewer water.  Then four hours later, I had to drink the second dose…thirty two ounces of sanitized sewer water.  I got my exercise in for the day running back and forth, forth and back.  No wonder they call it the trots.  When I was clean as a whistle, I went to sleep but not for long…

The next day, The Donald (husband) drove me to Vista del sol…loosely  translated avenue of the sun.  How lovely…a place where the sun doesn’t shine all that much.  I was greeted with a mountain of paperwork, steeped on top of the paperwork already submitted, and was told where the restroom was.  It looks like the staff’s been through this before.  A perfectly perfunctory day at the endoscopy center.

My name was called and I was led into the inner sanctum where a perky nurse told me about the experience I was about to undergo.  This was my fourth colonoscopy so I considered myself a pro.  I was looking forward to the magical powers of the twilight sleep.  Before that, though, she made me fill out more papers, and had me sign about a million consents before they hooked me up to a machine that sounded like a Las Vegas poker machine.  I hit the jackpot when another nurse asked me if I exercised a lot.  Who me?  I thought she was going to chide me for my sedentary lifestyle but then she mentioned that my heart rate was that of an athlete.  Who me? 

Then I noticed that my wrist band said that I was a male.  Who me?  I informed the nurse that the last time I checked I was indeed a female.  Wow the inner sanctum went into overdrive, changing my wristband, my paperwork, my insurance papers and all.  I caused quite a frenzy.  I asked them if maybe they did sex change operations on the side; was that why they were being so cautious.  No, they assured me that was not the case, but I sure saw a lot of worried faces among the sea of cutesy scrubs. 

Then I was wheeled into the inner, inner sanctum so that the gastroenterologist could have a peek at my inner, inner sanctum.  They gave me a shot and I was out like a light until I felt a painful swirling, twirling sensation up there.  This had never happened to me before; I never before woke up to the prodding and poking.  I’m thinking to myself, OMG, they really are doing a sex change operation!  How could I explain this to The Donald, who was patiently waiting for me to return as a fully functional female.   Apparently I was fed up with the swirling and twirling wherein I cussed at the doctor and they shot me up again with another downer.  Then, inexplicably, my athletic vital signs went kaput whereby they had to shoot me with an upper.  I felt like Elvis on a good day. 

When I woke up, they had to watch me for two hours to make sure I hadn’t changed into a male, or that the drugs they gave me had balanced out nicely.  Either way, I was there for a while.  The Husband couldn’t wait for me to toot so that we could go eat breakfast. 

When I was awake, alert, and fully female I read the post-op report.  “The colonoscopy was performed with moderate difficulty due to a tortuous colon”.  That’s not all that was tortuous!  Rachel Ray, where are you?  We need you to improve that lemon lime stuff in less than 30 minutes, please!

Before I left, the nurses gathered ’round and said I was the prettiest male patient they had that day.  Maybe it was the makeup I decided to wear.

Colonoscopies are vital procedures, with or without makeup.  I recommend that everyone have one.  The twilight sleep alone is worth the effort.

So is the chocolate ice cream afterwards.

About teddy616

I like to write. It's therapeutic. I just published my memoir, Stifle Yourself, Edith.
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