Yesterday saw me head off to the internist’s practice again and having lived through the whole procedure twice now, I thought I’d start off with a couple of tips for those of you who have yet to discover the joy of colonoscopy. (After all, we’re all getting older ;-)).
- Be prepared: buy the softest toilet tissue known to man and as back up for those late night splatter-moments, some extra-mild, extra-soft, extra-strong baby wipes.
- Reserve a toilet just for you. Ban all family members and inform them that there is no excuse for forgetting – the aroma itself, being a reminder.
- When you feel ‘a movement’ run to your reserved area. There will be no time to finish the *cuppa/tweet/crossword clue/debate/jam sandwich/telephone conversation. *Delete as appropriate.
- Eating a jam sandwich is a bad idea.
- Think carefully what to wear to your appointment. Avoid buttons. The patient before me gave himself away as a ‘first-timer’. Cardigan buttons totally mismatched.
- Avoid discovery of any state secrets in the weeks before your appointment. The truth drug is highly likely to encourage you to ‘share the news’.
I have to tell you, my clinic is particularly efficient. You might even describe it as ‘factory like’. Within moments of waking from your induced sleep, you must dress yourself and your nurse directs you into the waiting room. You’re offered a tea or a coffee and then she shuffles the next patient into the theatre.
But don’t worry. I still had time for a chat.
This part of the post I am dedicating to four particular bloggers:
- earlybird who suggested the actual idea for this post.
- Kim who earned first prize for being the first person not to spam me on my contact me form (and the only other prize I could think of was a broken tumble dryer). Besides, she’s proved herself to be my kind of gal, after she ingested the ‘truth drug’ she awoke looking for a party.
- slpmartin who had this page been an airline, would have earned frequent flier points. I can’t offer you a free flight anywhere, but I can give you a mention and say thanks for your continued support. I always look forward to reading your comments.
- And last but by no means least Tilly Bud who has the funniest and most entertaining blog I know.
Back to me.
The good news is that having continuously told myself the day before that decorum is in, I seemed to have convinced my brain to stop and think before speaking. The bad news is that my brain decided it was a good idea to have a good old blurt-out anyway. The other good news is my husband is also, now, a second-timer. Not a patient obviously, but a carer. So he knew not to take me anywhere on the way back to the car. Especially not to the chemist.
(If you have no clue what I am going on about, then you need to read my previous post.)
Luckily for me, as I explained to my lovely nurse that I have a tendency to reveal all after an anaesthetic injection, she calmed my fears and told me solemnly, that, “What’s said in this room, stays in this room.”
Good. Then she wouldn’t mind knowing these facts:
- I have four children and here’s a list of all the medical problems they’ve ever had.
- And any they’re likely to have…
- I want to tell you all about my blog…
- The local chemist is orderly, but somewhat dusty.
- My house is dusty too! Chuckle, chuckle.
- My tummy hurts.
- You’re pretty. I think she felt a little embarrassed so she answered, “It’s a matter of taste.” To which I elaborated, “Well, I find you pretty.”
- Decorum finally took over, because I remember wanting to inform that her that, on the other hand, I didn’t find her colleague at all pretty. But I don’t think I actually said it.
- She took me to the bathroom, and because of my completely incapable state, found it necessary to fetch my husband. Who found the whole situation extremely amusing. Me being the only patient requiring proper assistance into the waiting room.
- My final contact with her was a little shout from behind my unlocked toilet door, (she had told me not to lock it, concerned apparently, with my safety), “He’s a pretty one as well.”
- After some roaring laughter, my ‘pretty’ man managed to guide me, staggers and all, into the waiting room while I told anyone within earshot, that I found this to be a “lovely clinic”. Can you tell I’m a soppy drunk?
- They shepherded
the loud oneme out of the building as quickly as possible, but not before I’d managed to giggle at a toddler who’d plopped onto his bottom and exclaimed proudly to his parents, “He’s just like me.”