Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Regular friends of the decanter may recall Ol’ Robbo posting a couple months ago about going in for an initial consultation for his first colonoscopy?  Whelp, yesterday I actually went through with it.

As Mal Reynolds would say, “Huh.”

As far as the prep work went, it really must have been a lot more awful back in the day because, despite the traditional hype, to me the whole biznay turned out to be a big nothing-burger.  I was expecting vile-tasting concoctions, nausea, cramps, and the like.  But the “EZ-2-GO” kit (no, I’m not making that up) was nothing but tasteless powders easily masked by Gator-Aid.  And while they certainly threw the bilge pumps into overdrive, which after all was the whole point, I suffered no other adverse symptoms.  And on the bright side, confined to the throne most of the afternoon and evening, I got a lot of reading done.

No, the really awful part of the prep to me was the fasting.  Ol’ Robbo found himself starving by mid-afternoon, and so hungry the night before that I could hardly sleep.  And as for the lack of coffee and wine? Just don’t even ask.

(By the bye, I understand that this kind of purging is a Thing among Left Coast and Hollywood types, as they think it provides some kind of physical and spiritual health benefit.  My G/I guy openly sneered at the idea.)

As far as the actual dance went, Ol’ Robbo’s greatest concern going into it, believe it or not, was having to put on the Gown of Shame.  A few years back, I had an endoscopy done at one of the local hospitals.  The ward was something like a stockyard, with G/I patients all over the place and bad moons rising all around.  Being a very modest fellah, I really didn’t want that.

Fortunately, this time I went to a practice that does all its procedures in-house.  They were more than respectful, and had a carefully-choreographed system whereby patients were moved about one at a time and strategic blankets were provided to keep one covered up until the moment the fun began.

And then there was the Nap.  Mmmmmm……the Nap.  Now that’s something that lives up to its hype.  “We go night-night now?” I asked the gas-passer.  “We go night-night now,” she said.  Deep, deep down in an instant, gradually rising to some pleasant but unrecoverable dream and then suddenly finding myself somewhat bewildered in a recovery bay with the G/I guy and gas-passer smiling down at me.

As for the recovery itself, reverting back to my prior hospital experience, I was expecting the “what’s your hurry/here’s your hat” treatment, but again I was pleasantly surprised.  In fact, I snapped out of it pretty quickly, but when I said I was good to go, they actually held me back a bit to be doubly sure.

Oh, and I’m fine.  They snipped out two or three baby polyps that they’re going to check, of course, but the doc seems quite unconcerned.  He says I don’t need to go back for another five years.

And about that gnawing hunger? I demanded that Mrs. R immediately take me to the nearest Chick-Fil-A, where I snarfed down a Hate Sammich, Hate Shake, and large order of Fries of Intolerance in nothing flat.  Mmmmm…..

The one last thing is that the post-recovery instructions said no alcohol for the rest of the day.  “Be damned to that,” I said to myself. “After what you just did, if you’re not going to buy me dinner, at least I’m going to buy myself a drink!”

** Obligatory title.