Ron Hart : My colonoscopy

Published 12:18 pm Wednesday, September 2, 2009

This week my doctor went boldly where no man has gone before by conducting my first colonoscopy. I gravitate toward doctors who play golf, especially those who putt well because their hands do not shake.

The procedure went well, but now I know how those sock puppets in the media feel. For Wolf Blitzer’s sake, I hope David Axelrod has small hands. I have no regrets about doing this, except that I hate to do that on the first date — but he was “a doctor.” I just hope he calls me again.

Turning 50 this year made it my time to ride the silver rocket. “Proctologist” is a word a straight man never likes to hear, along with a few others like “testicular,” “ingrown,” “listen,” “ask for directions,” and “let’s cuddle.” But I knew the colonoscopy was something I had to do, and you should, too.

First, they make you stop eating the day before and drink a particularly obnoxious concoction called “MoviPrep.” This stuff can only be described as tasting like tinsel from your Christmas tree ground up into creek water coming from near a phosphate plant. I think they do that so you cannot take a plane out of town; you would not get through a TSA metal detector.

In about 30 minutes you understand what the “Mov” part of “MoviPrep”’ means. Not to be indelicate, but you run to your potty, and you and the toilet make like a jet ski for the next hour. It is like that scene from the movie “Dumb and Dumber.” You know the one, done back when Jim Carrey was funny and not trying to get an Oscar.

If Obama would just allow it, they should use “MoviPrep” on captured al-Qaida fighters. After taking it, everything comes out. It is like a divorcee after three vodkas at Houston’s.

Then a loved one, or someone just looking for entertainment, drives you to the procedure. You meet with the anesthesiologist, who, by American Medical Association rules, has to be foreign. You then impart critical personal information to this person, who is going to put you to as near to death as you have yet come. Can you think of a better time to have communication difficulties?

They roll you into a room and put an IV in your arm in preparation for putting you into a mini-sleep — or, as Michael Jackson called it, “afternoon nap time.” I woke up about an hour later thinking I was in a scene from “Slum Dog Millionaire,” but it was just the anesthesiologist asking me questions.

Once you can stand up, they release you to go home. Come to think of it, that’s the same thing my local bartender does. I saw a Candy Striper on the way out of the procedure room and really hoped it was not Richard Simmons.

You feel a bit groggy and have an eerie feeling that you may have fallen asleep in a gay bar. Not that I ever have — again. They say you cannot drive that day or (my favorite) “operate heavy machinery.” This conveniently fits my lifelong rule: Do Not Operate Heavy Machinery — EVER. I actually call office staff in to operate my stapler.

I hope this answers your questions about getting a colonoscopy. And to you liberal bloggers out there, the answer is “no.” My doctor did not find my head up there.

It was a lot less traumatic than my guy friends had taunted. The good news is that, since it went well, I do not have to have another one for 10 years. So, when Obama’s health care bill gets passed this year, I am going to immediately fill out the necessary 80 pages of federal paperwork and apply to the Colonoscopy Czar of the Amalgamated Service Workers Union Local 1984 for my next one in 2019.

God, I hope the Feds do not read my columns.