For Dave Barry
“How’s your butthole today?”
That’s how my proctologist greeted me upon entering the exam room just before my colonoscopy.
Her tone was as chirpy as if she had actually ridden in on a golden ray of sunshine singing, “Good morning … good morning,” Judy Garland style.
I blushed. I’m uncomfortable with butt banter. I had never said butthole before, let alone written it (until now!). Heck, I’m still in denial of my welcome-to-this-world meconium moment way back in a birthing room in 1964.
My wife, Brynne, laughed loud enough for us both. That she was raised with an older brother naturally made her a lifelong fan of scatological humor. A squeezed plastic ketchup bottle breaking wind during a fine dining experience seldom escapes without some cheeky remark of hers while I prudently pretend the Whoopee cushion sound emitting from the condiment bottle never happened. If a person happens to glance over from his or her table, I explain, “That wasn’t me. That was the ketchup bottle – or my wife.”
An honest answer to my proctologist’s question would’ve been, “It’s very puckered considering what it’s about to go through.”
In hindsight, I suspect it was my proctologist’s standard greeting for all patients just to lighten the mood.
I had my first colonoscopy at 50, with plans to undergo a second 10 years later. I was moved to the five-year plan, though, when my mom was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer in 2016, accounting for my second screening at 55. Both times, polyps were found, removed, and deemed non-cancerous.
In 2021, cancer finally killed Mom. She never once had a colonoscopy, too shy to discuss butt matters with others. That her mother was also diagnosed with colon cancer decades earlier made me even more susceptible to becoming a cancer statistic. Based on family history, my proctologist became adamant that I now get screened every three years, not five.
I don’t mind the actual colonoscopy – anesthesia makes it a non-event. What I dread is the required preparatory process: the fasting; the 96 snot-flavored ounces of what I call Gatorlax (a Gatorade/Miralax mix); the four Dulcolax tablets taken simultaneously that gave new meaning to the lyrics in “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” that state, “… at seven p.m., a main hatchway caved in …” (coincidentally, my main hatchway did cave in at 7 p.m.).
We aren’t being cheeky, Scott’s butt got two thumbs up! Okay, well . . . maybe that is cheeky. (Photo provided)
To learn more about the prep effects, Google “Dave Barry colonoscopy” to access a classic 2008 Miami Herald humor column and be regaled by such phrases as “nuclear laxative,” “space shuttle launch,” and “spurting violently.” These aren’t exaggerations.
(In honor of the 15th anniversary of Dave’s first colonoscopy, I declare The Violent Spurts to be a good name for a rock band.)
Fortunately, the prep effects were soon erased by anesthesia. I always love that feeling of free-falling into unconsciousness once an anesthesiologist administers magic sleep seeds through the IV line. Just before the medicine took full effect, I expressed to the colonoscopy team my great love for anesthesia. To their delight, though, I slurred and pronounced it “Anastasia.” Boston’s “Don’t Look Back” played in the surgery room. Hoping to wow them with my rock trivia prowess, I announced, like some crazed, throwback 1970s disc jockey, that the song appears on Boston’s “best album ever,” something I immediately regretted upon realizing that “Don’t Look Back” is not on Boston’s “best album ever.” Boston’s best album ever is their first album, eponymously titled Boston. “Don’t Look Back” is actually the title track of Boston’s second album. Dream-like, I tried clawing out of Anastasia’s rabbit hole to correct myself and save face, but failed to do so before a hasty, heavy mental fog enveloped me and delivered me to the sweet, temporary, zonked-out zone.
In what felt like an eye-blink in time, I awakened woozily in Recovery, which is where the real colonoscopy dangers exist. Unbeknownst to me, my wife’s cell phone video camera captured my anesthesia after-effect crazy talk which was texted to our kids who got a kick out of clips documenting good old dad’s state of disinhibition in the form of wacky, rambling, seemingly drunken comments.
Me (my first recorded words): I heard a Boston song. Was the doctor a fan?
Brynne: I don’t know.
Me: Was I good?
Brynne: The nurse said you were great.
Me: I love them all.
Brynne: You were quick. What do you want?
Me: World peace!
Brynne: World peace? How about we start with lunch.
Me: I want breakfast. The Original Pancake House.
Brynne: What did your doctor just tell you?
Me: My doctor told me everything is good. That’s a relief to know. Maybe it’s worth the $80,000. She is the best. I highly recommend her because she asked me right off the bat, how’s my butthole?
Brynne: Do you have any last words?
Me: Considering the positive report, I have first words. Get your colon examined when you should. You never know. So here’s one to Mom … thank you, Mom. She’s watching over me.
Brynne: Always.
In case you’re wondering how my butthole is today, it’s fine now, dear reader, super fine.
I wish for all of you: world peace, pancakes, no polyps.
Now crank up Boston – their first album. Oh, and schedule that colonoscopy.
Contact: scottsaalman@gmail.com