MoviPrep Sebastian Vettel exhaust relates what happens in most of our lives at least once, but, my, it is just a little disconcerting.
Incidentally, you don't want to take too much pickled beets if you suffer from constipation. It acts a bit like some stuff called MoviPrep.
About a year ago, I had a serious oops for about a month. At every
visit to the loo there was an unnerving warm feeling accompanying the
stool. One look, and my heart sank; hearing a splash I looked down
again, expecting to find my bleedin' heart down there. Something
was pumping bright red blood into the toilet in a most disconcerting manner.
I tried hard for several weeks to pretend that all was well, this too will pass... but she who must be obeyed somehow found out. I learnt that little lesson many years back. She is also known as she who knows everything. Any cute little affair was out of the question. So too my leaking heart, or whatever organ is was that was turning the toiletbowl, and my underwear apparently, the colour of pickled beets.
she called called my friend Graham, a gastro man, to make an
appointment. Between them they coerced me with various threats of
imminent death if I did nothing. If not from a gastric bleed, then by my
wife's own hand. Both were a distinct possibility.
Graham started, as they do, with something called a history. Apparently the right diagnosis is usually made without lifting a finger, just from the history. What he didn't like was at least two or three nights a week I would have to sleep sitting bolt upright until two in the morning with a serious belly ache, so he surreptitiously did lift the finger. Without even asking my permission.
That next step really caught me by
surprise. "Lie on your side, knees up, pants down," and the bastard
actually reamed me. He didn't lift his finger, he inserted the damn
thing. The things you let your friends get away with. It was only at
that moment that it finally dawned on me why I could never be gay. For
the life of me, I dunno how those guys manage it. Fancy going through
that every Friday evening.
Then Graham presented a full colour diagram of my alimentary canal. After muttering something about a Barrett's oesophagus and tracing the passage that blood follows from your heart to your anus, with various stopoff places with names like sphincter and the twelve finger organ. That one really worried me. Was he suggesting that I was a perv and hid my sex toys up there somewhere. Then my Dutch vocab kicked in, ah, that's what those coffee-shop people call the duodenum. Pseudo-naming is something those Hollanders have perfected. Call a dagga den a coffee shop and name the duodenum after a dildo.
You've really got to give it to those alimentary guys. They've taken the elementary sales pitch of secondhand car-salesmen to staggering new heights. With an absolutely straight face, Graham described how he was going to make one journey, entering via the mouth to the centre of the earth, down, down, down like you would do at Gold Reefs number one mineshaft; and the other, using a two-hundred metre firehose, via another aperture located somewhere in Australia, up a coalmine shaft until the tubes met in some place called Newcastle, or whatever. Then, having located where my heart was bleeding, he would know exactly what to do.
I wouldn't feel a thing, and it probably wouldn't be painful unless that guy Barrett had defecated, or was the word defect? in which case I might wake up with a C-bag that would be dangling somewhere down near my other S-sac.
left feeling quite nauseous. Graham was going to descend with one tube,
rise up with another, perhaps insert a little hole and fit a bag that
looked something like a giant condom. It wouldn't hurt much, other than
my dignity, but I might have to mortgage my house to pay the bill. This
fascination with orifices gets me, and I even knew Graham was a happily married
man. To a woman, I mean.
I left his clinic with a list of do's
and don'ts, and a scrip for two small bags of muti called MoviPrep which, to
justify the price I suppose, came in a carton big
enough to hold a TV. That stuff in the wrong hands could be used to
conquer a whole nation. Actually the Brits used it very successfully to conquer those pesty Boers about a hundred years ago. During the first Boer War, to capture
an elusive band of farmers who were causing some mayhem when the
redcoats tried to drive them off their land, the Poms placed a precursor of Moviprep in the watering hole where they knew that band of terrorists, or freedom
fighters, depending on whose side you are used to gather; they were soon captured with their
pants down at Onderbroek Spruit. Underpants Creek. Well named later in memory of that tragic affair.
The next day I couldn't think straight. If one finger could cause such indignity, my mind kept dwelling on what it would be like to have all twelve of his fingers examining my intestines. I mean, isn't that how Medicine names the parts. The oesophagus after Barrett, and the duodenum after a perv Dutchman called Dr Twelve Fingers. Some sort of monster.
Finally the day arrived when I had to start making my preparation for the day.
No solid food, no fibre, nothing but jelly and chicken bouillon. Now
that chicken bones broth I'm familiar with. She who must be obeyed makes
it every week to keep her arthritis under control. Some quack at a
place called Harvard said it's better than anti inflammatory drugs and
she, poor woman, believes him. Some wag wrote to me at
Chiropractic-Help.com describing that bouillon as tasting like river
water, only it has a less wholesome taste. But when you're faced with
only a glass of MoviPrep for the next thirty-six hours it was, sigh, a
By nightfall I was starving. Fortunately; it made the next twelve hours easier. My hand shaking, I mixed those two little packets of innocuous looking white powder in a litre of luke warm water, unable not to make an association between TV boxes and Graham peering up my rear end, and watching the result on the TV screen.
If you live in one of the countries that have no clue about what a litre of MoviPrep is, taken sip by bloody awful sip, it's something like ten imperial gallons. At least that's the way it seemed. Talking of tens, I suppose Americans are so good at mathematics because they are forever practising dividing by three and eight and 5280. I find dividing by ten and 1,000 quite difficult enough.
It's impossible to drink that litre any other way than teaspoon by teaspoon. Even the river water tasted better. With a couple of drops of artificial lemon mixed in; I still feel nauseous every morning when she who must be obeyed starts the day with warm water and a squeeze of fresh lemon. Also courtesy of Harvard Med school, I suppose. I'll stick with coffee.
The instructions say that nausea is possible, but vomiting is a no-no. Keep it down. Ugh. Then the instructions go on to say that a watery stool is to be expected.
Mm, a watery stool. What they don't tell you is that it arrives with the full force of a Sebastian Vettel exhaust. A rocket engine with you being propelled forwards by the force of that spew. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Newton, I believe. I wrote the next day to the manufacturers of MoviPrep suggesting that they include a safety-belt in the TV-box. I decided to instead use the Mulligan belt that I use for the treatment of hip arthritis to keep me well anchored down to the toilet.
The toilet. That's where you spend most of the next few hours. And then, when it feels as though your bowel must be squeaky clean, you have to swallow another ten imperial gallons of that lemon-flavoured river water. It's then that you realise that the fun has only just begun. You get the drift. I was tempted to add a couple tots to that ugly stuff to make up a G&T with a splash of lemon, but sanity prevailed. I didn't want to take a tumble on the way to the toilet, before I had time to fit the Mulligan belt whilst I was in full Sebastian Vettel mode.
The good wife, with good reason it turned out, said I was only welcome in the boudoir if she could first lay down a rubber sheet borrowed from the grandchildren. Woman's inhumanity to man. She knew she was quite safe, and there would be absolutely no need to apply the hot tongue and cold shoulder that night. I fell into an uneasy, troubled sleep, dreading Graham's twelve fingers examining my heart for any possible leaks. Periodically I would make a heroic dash to the toilet, appreciative of the towels that lined the carpet from my side of the bed to to the toilet. In our home the rule is: "you make a mess, you clean it." In the morning, I must say she was ever so kind. She took the towels, the bedding and my pyjamas to the washing machine.
Then that day. Son in law drove me to the hospital, grinning periodically from ear to ear. "What's so funny?" I snarled. Luckily Helen had supplied me with a couple towels to sit on and a change of clothing. That moviprep is just pure epsom salts with a dash of foul tasting artificial lemon flavour. You know, that stuff that poor under privileged cooks have to use who don't have a lemon tree growing in the garden.
I leapt from the car, bag in hand, leaving son in law to
deal with the towels, and without looking back. Serves him right. At the
front desk of the hospital I first had to make a deposit of three months' wages and fill in umpteen forms giving graham full right to
remove my bleedin' heart, stab me in the belly and fit a pouch and do whatever else surgeons need to do.
Then there was that pretty nurse who told me to strip down to the altogether and put on a gown. She kept staring, wondering if for the first time she might find a man whose appendage hadn't shrunk to the size of his pinkie at the thought of what was imminent, I suppose. I could see she was disappointed. Just everybody was being diabolical, and I knew that the worst was still to come. Graham was surely the chief villain of the piece.
Then mercifully the next five minutes passed in a blur. The waiting room was full of people looking just as green in the face as I felt. They obviously wanted us in and out, a veritable sausage machine. A nurse put a needle into a vein in my forearm, Graham greeted me from behind a mask; what, did he think he might catch HIV from me? flashed through my mind. It was only later that I realised, it was to protect him from any last effects of the river water and lemon juice.
"This won't hurt; just a little prick." I gripped my hands together, I'm sure the knuckles were white, waiting for Graham to fit the fifty metre firehose. I waited, and waited... and, giving a little shake of the head, I must surely be hallucinating, but the pretty nurse was saying, "it's all over, you can get dressed." This time she didn't stare.
I'd just put my rods on when Graham swung by. I could see he was upbeat. "Make an appointment to see me in my rooms next week, Bernie. But the long and the short of it, there's nothing to worry about. Oh, other than your stomach smelt like a brewery with just a tinge of lemon. We'd better talk about that."
Apparently my heart and colon had passed with flying colors. The rectum had a small varicosity, but it had already healed. If it leaked again, Grahams said he might have to fit some barbed wire up the rectum, but it was unlikely.
But I would have to quit drinking, it was seriously affecting my stomach and oesophagus.
On the subject of Colonoscopies... a few gags:
1. 'Please go easy, Doc. You're venturing where no man or woman has ever gone before!'
2. 'Find Sebastian Vettel yet?'
3. 'If you turned your hearing aid up, you'd hear me.
4. 'Found what you're looking for? Did you see the dildo? Can you see the firehose with the gastroscope?
5. 'You know, under Nebraska law , we'd be legally married now.'
6. 'Met any of my friends up there, doc?'
7. 'You put your right hand in, you take your right hand out...'
8. 'You got a glove on, doc?
9. 'If your hand doesn't fit, please don't go on trying! If at first you don't succeed, keep trying, doesn't apply on Fridays.'
10. 'Hey Doc, let me know if you found my indignity.'
11. 'Phew, do gays go through this half a dozen times every weekend?'
12. 'When you're done would you scribble a letter for my wife that you never found my head up there?'
Santie on a visit to discover her roots discovers that Giorgio is not her cousin, but her half brother.