Part One: The Bachelorette Party/The Bowel Prep
Shortly before we take our wedding vows, we are overwhelmed by the urge to have that one last ‘hoorah.’ That night where we drink too much, do things we’d love to forget, and wake up the next day feeling like we got run over by a semi truck. When the semi truck driver realizes he hit you, he backs up and hits you again – the best witness is a dead witness (another story, but still good advice). You hug the porcelain god like it’s your best friend since childhood. In a way, it is. The white throne never fails anybody.
Similarly, the day before a colonoscopy, you hit the “bar”, more formally known as the pharmacy. The nice pharmacist lady hands you a liter-sized jug of jungle juice, labeled GoLYTELY. “Remember to drink the whole thing,” she chirps. Her advice is the drunken equivalent of “bottom’s up.” Why is she smiling like that? You try to ignore it – maybe she had a morning sex session, or maybe she’s been dipping into the pharmacy cookie jar.
Anyway, just like that wonderful party celebrating the last night of your single life, on this fateful day, you get to celebrate the virginity of your colon. Like shots of JägerMeister, the colonic cocktail doesn’t go down as easily as you would have hoped. The consistency is thick and oily. It hits your gag receptors and you wretch forward. Have faith that the gagging is symbolic – it will be a long time before you have to drink this poison again and, after the vows, a long time before you have to put other unmentionables in your mouth. Maybe never again on both accounts.
Whether you get there through the ingestion of Tequila shots or GoLYTELY, the outcome is the same. The diabolical semi driver with an evil smirk cast across his face has returned and you, my friend, have a bull’s-eye across your forehead. At least this time you get to sit up, rather than crouched over the loo like some pathetic street bum. Be forewarned – along with shedding pounds, you will also drop 10 IQ points, because yes – you really do poo your brains out.
Part Two: The Formalities.
The big day has arrived. Consumed with nervous tension, you wake before the sun. In the shower, you shave every inch of your legs. You hit your armpits. And then you trim the landing strip. For today, you will disrobe and be judged. Put your best you forward (or backward, depending). In a moment of panic, you wonder if it’s too late to get anal bleaching.
You arrive to the church/outpatient surgery center. Your mate can never see you like this – it would definitely be bad luck – so you bring your mother. She helps you disrobe and slip into your wedding dress/hospital gown. In a moment of anxiety/colon-prep revenge, your gut rumbles, and you rush into the bathroom for that one last explosion of colonic cleansing. Mortifying noises emanate from the restroom. Splatter. Plop. Blast. Kerplunk. The rocket fire pouring out your backside continues for minutes. Sweat beads on your brow, threatening to mess up your makeup. Finally, you have nothing left to donate. You slip out of the now toxic bathroom with the dignity of a lady, and trot away from the scene of the crime as quickly as possible.
Part Three: The Ceremony/The Procedure.
Playing the role of beautiful bride/terrified patient, you strut down the aisle/let the nurses roll you into the procedure room. Your helpful best friend/anesthesiologist slips you a valium/injects Versed into your IV. Finally, a warm peacefulness overcomes you like a blanket fresh out of the dryer. Your priest/gastroenterologist nods and asks if you are ready to begin. “No time like the present,” you declare with a slight slur that everyone ignores. The priest guides you to your proper place on the podium. The doctor tells you to get on your side, with your money end pointed his way.
On the podium, you look at your mate. There is a moment, however fleeting, of panic. Is he the one? Til death do us part? Am I cut out for this? But then an intoxicating rush of adrenaline kicks in, and you proceed with the ceremony on autopilot, remembering only bits and pieces.
On the gurney, you feel the GI doc spreading your cheeks. Then, the anesthesiologist pumps you full of drugs and you blissfully tune out. Every once in a while, you regain consciousness, only to feel a nagging discomfort in your rear end and to see your colon staring back at you from an overhead monitor. It’s ridges, twists, and turns are a metaphor for the life ahead of you.
Part Four: Life After
Well, you did it. You got hitched/let some stranger shove 4-6 feet of fiberoptic cable up your backside. Life will never be the same. In either case, you probably lost 10 pounds because of nerves/colonic assault. Enjoy that part while it lasts. In one case, you’ve had a pain up your rear that’s over in minutes. In the other case, you now have a intermittent pain in your ass that will last a lifetime. Just remember that lubrication and the right amount of sedation helps.