Poop Chute Report

Welcome to my experience of the dreaded colonoscopy.

While being driven to the hospital, I decided to read through their brochure.  I noticed several spelling errors and word omissions and was immediately riddled with anxiety about their ability to stick tubes up my anus if they couldn't even hire a qualified editor.

Upon arrival to the hospital, I met Beverly.  She was a dear, elderly woman.  I jokingly asked her for a sip of her juice, because I was parched beyond belief. She chuckled, but declined; greedy b*tch.  Anyway, she handed me my check-in form and a laminated number and asked me to have a seat until my number was called (they give you a number as to not call your name out for all of creation to hear). BT and I sat down, and I began to examine my check-in form.  It stated I currently worked at the Hartford (which I haven’t since 2004), that my husband’s last name is Tholke, and that his phone number is the same as mine.  Perhaps for some of you this is not a big deal, but for me, this is set off numero dos before 8:00 AM with no coffee or food for over 24 hours.  I was HANGRY.

To alleviate some frustration, I took pictures of said errors and texted them to my friend in disbelief.

“Number 10,” said Valerie.  Ah! Sweet Valerie… She greeted me and walked me to the automated check-in kiosk to electronically sign my life away.  I began clicking “yes,” “I agree,” and “next” until I completed the process.  Well, as luck would have it, the machine flickered on and off and then powered down.

I said, "Valerie, I’m about to lose my shit.”

Valerie said, “Don’t worry. I am the Patient Experience Coordinator; you can tell me anything.”

To which I said, “GREAT! Well, first your brochure has spelling errors and word omissions, of which I have taken the liberty of correcting for you, IN INK; my check-in form information is incorrect; and this f*cking machine just blacked out on me after inputting information and agreeing to multiple questions. Frankly, I’m not very confident about this hospital!”

“That’s OK,” she said. “I have a hand-held mini-computer you can use to input the same information.”

“OK,” I said.  Just as I signed my name and clicked “next,” like a glitch in the matrix, that lil mini bastard flickered on and off, on and then OFF.  DEAD…the battery was kaput.

I paused, smiled and turned my gaze to Valerie. She said, “It’s OK, I got your information recorded, I’ll just print it out and you can look it over for errors.”

While she was jacking around with the cord on the mini bastard, she said, “Are you an English major?”

“No, just a grammar Nazi,” I replied.  She laughed, but asked if she could call me in the next few days and thanked me for pointing out the errors.  She, too, was in disbelief.

“Jennifer?” I heard. So much for anonymity! “Let’s get you started.”  I started to feel better as I followed Nancy down the hall, but honestly I was mostly excited for the Propofol!!  Two nurses, Marlo and Lisa, began to fire off questions, which sounded like echoes; “What’s your name, who is your doctor, and do you know why you are here today?” (As if I had forgotten). I know, I know, it’s all protocol; I just found it amusing. “Is there any possibility you could be pregnant?”

I busted out into laughter and shouted “uh, No!” Since nurses are not allowed to take your word for it, off I went to piss in a cup and lest we forget, shit like a goose, as I’ve not yet-STILL- stopped shooting liquid out of my anus.

ONE minute later, knock-knock- knock...“Whatcha doin in there Jenn?” asked Marlo.

“Dancing, Marlo-I’m almost finished.”

After the peeing, questioning, signing, initialing, and vein poking, I was greeted by Scatman Crothers to whisk me away. As he wheeled the gurney through the halls to the ‘prep room,’ I noticed literal signs everywhere (God made the heavens and earth and Mother Mary figures illuminated in the halls, etc.). We engaged in small talk, and then I asked him if he enjoyed his job to which he replied, “Yes, ma’am.” He was pleasantly wonderful, so polite, and wished me well when we parted ways.

My next stop on this joyful morning was to meet the wonderful inducer of pleasure, Dr. Purkey, the anesthesiologist (yes this was his real name). God Bless this man. Seriously, please bow your heads. He hooked a sister up! He was a bit of a jokester, but I honestly don’t remember one ounce of that blissful half hour slumber. BOO.

When I awoke in the recovery room (AKA: the bog of eternal stench), my wonderful husband was sitting next to me, laughing at my flatus and when I perked up enough to laugh too, I then became conscious that I might shit myself if I wasn’t very careful. We were literally in a recovery room of fart rippers.  It was hysterical and a pre-requisite in order for discharge; no pun intended.

Finally, the doctor came in and informed me that I was as clean as a whistle and off I went.

In the words of Tori Amos- “Exit 75-I’m still alive, I’m still alive!”