Bringing up the rear

"Take care of your body. It's the only place you have to live."

—Jim Rohn

I can smile after under going a medical procedure that makes everybody squirm.

LEWISTON, Maine —When you turn 50, your concerned, family doctor taps you on the shoulder and says: "It is time to get this done."

You might react like Robert De Niro in "Taxi Driver" and shout: "Are you talkin' to me!" You could go off the deep end, pull an Anthony Soprano and scream: "Forget you!"

But deep down, you know your doctor's wisdom and expertise in the medical field are unquestionable. You pause for a moment and tell the good doc you will schedule an appointment in the near future.

The hell you will! 

You will procrastinate and find any excuse to avoid having a colonoscopy. 

Here is what you are really thinking behind a masked smile as this moment of cooperation with your physician disappears.

Hey doc, I refuse to wear a johnny and spend the next 24 hours reading "War and Peace" in the bathroom after drinking a gallon of bilge water that will keep me running to the head and cursing my existence.

I waited four years before I reluctantly gave the green light to undergo a colonoscopy — a pain-in-the-ass procedure that saves lives. 

Of course, people, who have undergone the procedure, giggle when they learn it's your turn on the table. They remind you that your colon will be on parade in front of a handful of medical personnel in a cold operating room.

Then comes a cavalcade of jokes about your exposed derriere and the crap you must drink that strips away your insides like the Rotor Rooter man does to your home's pipes with an iron snake.

I made the appointment two weeks ago.

Preparation begins five days before your insides go on display. You stop eating certain kinds of foods before you get to that day — a day that lives in infamy.

When you begin gulping the stuff, there are moments when you wish you weren't born. The liquid is flavored, but I think a mixture of gin and Vodka might have made this medicine palatable. 

Beginning at midnight on the day before ground zero, you can't eat. You are allowed to suck on Popsicles, sip chicken broth (yum) or drink Gatorade. By the time you force yourself to drink the medicine, you want to eat your table. The hunger pangs are so intense that I wanted kill the ground hog eating my garden and have it for dinner.

Before ingesting an entire gallon of medicine, you must imbibe a 10-ounce bottle of magnesium citrate. You might be fooled that 10 ounces of this effervescent mix sounds refreshing — that's what the label says, anyway. After a few gulps, you start thinking of the word "vomit." It takes an hour to get this down. 

Trust me on this one.

Around 7 p.m., you are required to consume a half gallon of medicine. In no time at all, the stuff kicks in and you become intimate with your bathroom. Fortunately, we have two toilets in the house. You should be finished with it at around 9 p.m. At 3 a.m., Round 2 begins. You arise out of your stupor with an empty stomach and go to work polishing off the rest of medicine. 

The obscenities grow louder with each gulp.

You visit the bathroom in your home at least several times before you think it is safe to head to the hospital without attaching a Porta Potty to your car.

Check-in time is 7 a.m. You wait until you are summoned to the pre-op room where several nurses hand you a Johnny and stick things in your arm while trying to make you comfortable, which will never happen.

The cheerful anesthesia guy visits and explains these wonderful drugs will lull you into a deep sleep while your colon in on a lift undergoing an inspection.

You don't want to be conscious for this procedure. Take the drugs while the good doctor goes about his business examining your colon on the Silver Screen.

While laying on the table dreaming of a roast-beef sandwich and a tall, sudsy beverage, the medical staff inflates your stomach like a rubber tube inside a bicycle tire. Your ballooning abdomen allows the doctor to observe your colon without the rest of your organs getting in the way of his line of vision. When you awake, your guts are pressurized. I will spare readers the grisly details what happens as you recover in a bloated, wonderful haze.

The entire procedure takes about two hours. Those wonderful drugs wear off quick and you spend the  afternoon sleeping it off like some drunk in Central Park.

Was it worth feeling like the Goodyear blimp for an hour and drinking medicine that could wear down an elephant?

Absolutely!

My doctor, who was quite thorough, was impressed at how serious I took the preparation and gave my colon a clean bill of heath. I told him the medicine tasted like crap. He shook his head and agreed with me.

There was a 50-50 chance the doctor might have discovered a cancerous polyp, which could be removed on the spot.

The decision to undergo a colonoscopy is a no-brainer unless you enjoy playing Russian roulette with your health.

In a way, I feel like a new man, lighter on my feet and can boast that I have the cleanest colon this side of the Mississippi.

One flush away from insanity

“A hundred years from now it will not matter what my bank account was, the sort of house I lived in, or the kind of car I drove...but the world may be different because I was important in the life of a child.”

 Forest E. Witcraft quote

AUBURN — It was the only way I could rebuild my confidence and stop the madness. I refused to turn to anyone else. I decided to go it alone before it ruined our lives.

    Thus, I began my miserable descent into the dark bowels of my leaky toilet.

    Sure, I am handy and somewhat of an artist when it comes to woodworking, but I know I am no Bob Villa. And I am certainly not qualified to join the cast of "This Old House." 

    Those guys make it look oh so easy when they dismantle an old porch and build a 40-foot addition in its place in less than hour. Tearing up sub-flooring in a run-down kitchen and replacing it with fine solid wood is no problem for the "Old House" gang. They get the job done in days. I would be there for weeks, filling my old fu*&%ing house with obscenities which would make my cringing neighbors shut their windows.

    I put all trepidation aside and decided to tackle a plumbing project, knowing all too well I might be in over my head. Still, I figured if I screwed up, and that was certainly not out of the question, I had my go-to plumber on standby. Mike can run rings around the "Old House" bunch. Ever watch this guy replace a faucet? He's like a surgeon, and he can do it in a heartbeat. It was like he was never there.

    He's that good.

    But knowing Mike was waiting in the wings, and that I had another bathroom at my disposal, gave me the courage to plunge my hands into the cold, disgusting waters of my toilet. I had to work fast in this repugnant environment.

    I wiped the sweat from my brow with a facecloth and grimaced as I worked feverishly to remove the culprit — a leaky flap — which caused me to lose sleep each night. Every moment counted. A good night's sleep was riding on my every move.

    Listening to a leaky toilet can drive anyone insane. Running water was a good excuse for Green Peace to pay me a visit with some guy named Rocky.


   Now that I was inside the messy tank, I decided to remove the corroded arm with the broken handle, too. I don't know how I did it, but I unscrewed the nut holding the arm that was attached to the leaky flap.

    Done! I was out in five minutes, with hours to spare.

    That was not a close call, but it sure was gross.

    Once I was inside toilet, there was no going back. It was imperative that the toilet was working again, because living without two bathrooms would be a damn major inconvenience to a family with a strapping teen-age son.

     After the removal of the dirty rotten flap, I made an urgent call to my local hardware store. Those guys really understand a frantic homeowner. They told me they had the goods and gave me the support I needed to finish this stressful job.

    I raced down Minot Ave, hoping I would find the right flap or it could be curtains for my beloved toilet.

    The hardware salesman knew his plumbing products and I was relieved to find both parts for my toilet. It helped that I brought the dirty, rotten flap with me to find the right piece.

   

    I raced back to the bathroom, read the directions carefully and began attaching the flap. This was a delicate procedure that took a minute or two, but I was too far along to quit. With the flap in place, my apprehension eased. Now came the new arm and the attachment of the chain to the flap. Everything fell into place, including the new flap.

    I stepped back and sighed. I turned the water back on and watched the rushing waters engulf the new flap. All I could do was wait as the water filled the tank. I stood there in silence, listening for any leaking. The minutes seemed like hours. Failure was not an option.

I decided to give the new arm a test run. I flushed the toilet again and again, and still there was no leaking.

    Bravo! The leaking had stopped and I felt good about myself and looking forward to a good night's sleep, knowing I would not have to replace the entire toilet.

    After all, it is still the best seat in the house!