The Colonoscopy Prep - A Poem

Come Monday;
No solid food on this day.
It truly sucks
Clear fluids
Only.
This is not how I wish to live.

Come the afternoon.
Gulp the grim lemon-tinted brew
Designed to purge and cleanse
All that is foul within me.
To drink it down like brave Dumbledore
Consuming The Dark Lord's evil potion.
Truly a poisoned chalice.

The tempest approacheth.
The rumbles from below commence,
Heralding a storm to end all storms.
The hatches batton'd.
The very ground on which I walk
Cover'd with an ocean of plastic sheeting
To capture the storm
Should it arrive unexpected.
God only knows when;
Perhaps not even She ...

And the time has at last arrived ...

Two hours pass ...

Now it is seven
There is precious little joy
To be gleaned from a colonoscope prep;
An acid waterfall
Pouring through a ring of fire.
Relentlessly.
Endlessly.
Every few minutes for hours that feel like days.
Even to be seated is to know pain;
A pain in the arse
So to speak.

At nine: talcum powder balms delicate regions
A little ...
And cups of tea
And apple juice.
So much juice, with my stores of thin, sanctioned soup depleted
(and excreted).
Another hour, knowing this is the time
When anal knives are sharpest, carve deepest.
Alas, the sting of cleansing
Too much, too soon!
I summon courage and
Yea! To the rescue comes my herbal salve
Of the type one must enjoy on the sly.
Ho ho ho!

I know this pain
And it shall come again.
Soon.
Very soon.
I must away once mo ...

The sting of expulsion
Diminished somewhat by the sight of translucent water
Lo! The end is nigh!
Grateful, lest my colon itself end up
Coiled within the bowl like a sleeping snake.
The taste of lemon-flavoured mineral salts
I shall not again willingly consume with great haste.
Yet I have remained calm in the face
Of this onslaught upon my ageing digestive system.
Thus far.

'Tis but foul water now
Which is welcome
Yet mingled with gastric juices
(which is less welcome).
My stomach still cries
Like a monstrous chimera of ancient plumbing and a mewling cat.
My arse remains aflame
With the unrighteous fury
Of Mephistopheles
And his sharpened trident.
The clock strikes eleven and all is well
As can be expected.

I hope and pray
That at the close of this ordeal
I do not soil my bed tonight.
An undesirable outcome indeed!
I shall sleep on a towel.
And hope.
For hope is all I have left within me.
The rest travels to the sea
Never to be seen again.
Hopefully.

A full roll of paper consumed.
Trust me - dab, don't wipe
For even if this is not your way at the start
You surely will
By the end of the night.
A process not for the faint of heart.

And still it seems
The end was less nigh than I had thought.
Damn and dash it all!

Now the witching hour
Six hours of hard toil
And I am spent.
I have nothing left to give.
I hope ...
Dearly.

Now at last, 'tis quarter to one.
Lean pickings at this time assure me
The trial by fire has surely run its course.
Surely.
Please
Let it be so!

Must awake with the birds to attend
The clinic in the morn.
A final few sips before bed
(not enough to create a flood).
For on awakening naught shall pass these lips
Until it is over
And forsooth much rejoicing shall be done.

A fitful sleep, another day.
A short commute.
Passing time in the waiting room with tales of scrumptious vampires.
A theatre gown and
Soon sweet nothingness
Rendering me insensible to unspeakable violations.

I awake and I am clear!
No more for another year - or, better, three.
Yet I feel strangely cheated,
As though such trials and tribulations
Should yield a more dramatic ending.

It matters not - I eat once more and rejoice!

© Grea Korting 2011