An unpleasant post on unpleasant things

Photo by Romina BM on Unsplash

There are things you can’t do again until you forget how unpleasant it was the first time, like a colonoscopy or writing a book.

I did my first colonoscopy back in March, or maybe it was February. If you asked me Friday, and someone did, how bad a colonoscopy was, I’d have said, and did say, it wasn’t that bad; the drugs are fun. The drugs may have had something to do with forgetting about that gallon of god knows what I had to ingest the day before, the viscous, salty liquid I can only describe as “spermy.” I may be off in the description as one of the main themes of my life is avoiding all things spermy. I must have blocked that out. Like I blocked out what happened after. How I couldn’t really walk Woody because I couldn’t make it past the parking lot without needing to run back inside.

It seems every time I mention a colonoscopy, someone wants all the details. I guess we’re at that age. And maybe because I get free healthcare at the VA (thank you, taxpayers. You’re the best.) I’m the first among my social group to go through it. So, here it is. (I’m sorry or you’re welcome.):

The drugs were fun. Truly. I have a bad history with anesthesia but this shit? Fun as hell. I didn’t even know I was high. I was just happy. So happy. Thrilled to be there. I loved everyone. Though a common side effect of the drug is amnesia, I remember enough to know I didn’t mind the procedure at all. I remember making brrrm brrm sounds as the doctor wove his way through my colon. I thought I was hilarious. I was pretty sure he did too. But it wouldn’t have mattered. I could not shut up. I kept congratulating him on going to medical school and trying to get him to agree butt stuff was a lot more fun that foot stuff. Less smelly too. He pretended he’d never heard of the cinematic masterpiece that was Inner Space that he probably hears about every time he’s all up in a gen x asshole and I believed he truly appreciated my synopsis.

When the nurse said we were going to find my dad, and we walked out to the lobby to see a man who was not my dad, I informed her in the panicked voice of a four year old, “that is not my dad. Not my dad. Not my dad.” The guy who was not my dad said “thank god,” which I found a little rude. In his defense, being accused by a 45 year old dyke of not being my dad was probably a little jarring.

On the way home, I tried to convince my dad, my real dad, to stop by Taco Bell. He told me Taco Bell was a bad idea. So when I got home, I thought he was probably right. I should listen to my dad. And I ordered Popeyes. (Don’t order Popeyes. Whatever you do. Don’t eat Popeyes after 24 hours of chugging laxatives. Do not.)

The doctor called the next day and despite my encouraging brrm brrm sounds, said they hadn’t been able to make it around the corner of my colon. I vaguely remembered switching positions a couple times and a nurse pressing against my side to try to bank the scope around the corner. But it didn’t work. The doc said I could do another colonoscopy, or a colonography—same prep, no scope. I think a colonography is a CAT scan or something. I don’t know because I stopped listening. I must’ve still remembered the unpleasantness of the prep. As such, I did not call to schedule the colonography.

Because the doctor definitely appreciated my jokes and probably watched Inner Space and enjoyed it, he kept calling. Bless his dedicated heart. Finally, last month, once I’d thoroughly forgotten the hell that is chugging laxatives and eating nothing but lime jello for 24 hours, I started assuring friends that a colonoscopy isn’t so bad, and this time, it’s just a scan, and I scheduled the colonography for this past Monday.

I didn’t have to drink the gallon of nasty shit because the VA in Austin doesn’t do colonographies. They schedule you at a private clinic and the private clinic’s instructions were to just mix a bottle of Miralax with Gatorade, any color but red. Unfortunately the private clinic’s instructions didn’t include a warning about peas. And like I said, I’d forgotten some of this hell. I had learned enough to know I hate jello and bought popsicles instead. I stocked up on butt wipes and yellow Gatorade. I cancelled plans. And I settled in for the prep.

Whatever anyone tells you, the prep is a goddamn nightmare, even without chugging the gallon of sperm. If they tell you it’s not, they’re lying, or they forgot.

They say you can eat a light breakfast. Toast or eggs. No grains. You were supposed to stop eating grains and vegetables, anything with fiber a few days ago. If you’re an idiot like me and forget, enjoy seeing those peas shoot out one by one after you get to the next step. Which is, somewhere around 5pm, you’re required to drink something that’ll have you squirting water out of your butt every ten minutes for the next 12 hours, and a single pea.

Your dog will hate you because you can’t walk him. You won’t sleep because any time you doze off, you have to get up to squirt water again. About the time you do finally fall asleep, it’s time to go to the procedure. But first you have to insert one last laxative into your sorry ass and try to hold it as long as you can. There’ll be one more pea. (I’m so sorry.)

Which is to say, I should be allowed to do a murder. Because by the time I got to the clinic, parked, and started walking, my appointment was cancelled—short staff. They left a voicemail and asked me to call to reschedule. I did not call to reschedule because the person who would’ve answered the phone didn’t deserve the words that would’ve come out of my mouth. I paid the $40 to get my car out of the broken garage that didn’t spit out tickets but demanded a ticket to exit, and I went home. I did have the sense the eat saltines instead of Popeyes.

I’ll call when I forget how unpleasant it is to do the prep. Maybe next year. Maybe when I finish writing a book, the other thing I didn’t agree to do until I’d forgotten that it’s a goddamn nightmare.

I forgot. I really did. I do remember them, the people who tell you these sorts of things, telling me I wouldn’t be able to write another until I forgot. I even remember thinking I’ll never forget. Then I forgot. Write a whole ass book? Why not. I’m not doing anything else.

I forgot I don’t get to do anything else. Not really. But I still have to do everything else, like colonographies. I’m not sure how anyone writes a book. I’m dead certain no one with kids has ever written a book. I shouldn’t say no one. Some guys have wives who do literally everything for them. For anyone else though, it’s impossible.

I’m responsible for a dog, that’s it. I have to take him for short walks in the morning and afternoon. The afternoon walk is shorter because the fucking pavement’s hot enough to melt paws. Then in the evening, we go for a longer walk that takes an hour or so. After that walk, he wants to play for about 30 minutes. So, dog care, maybe 3 hours a day. The rest is mine.

Of course I have to answer email, do taxes, answer more email, get my car inspected, go to the dentist, do laundry, shower occasionally or twice daily depending on weather, buy groceries, cook dinner—everything anyone has to do, except for the guys with wives who do all their shit. Other than those guys, I don’t know how anyone’s managing that shit, nevermind a job or writing.

But we were talking about writing a book. I forgot how little capacity I’d have for anything else. I forgot what a dick I’d feel like defending any time I have to write, or not write. One thing that’s impossible to explain to someone who doesn’t write is how much of writing is not writing, but not doing anything else, not anything else that requires thought. That it feels like laziness and procrastination makes it harder to defend what looks like laziness and procrastination against accusations of laziness and procrastination. But it’s not laziness or procrastination, unless it is. I’ll be the judge of that. By which I mean I’ll fucking judge myself endlessly any time I’m not writing. Spiral into a bottomless fucking hole if I don’t put words down.

God help anyone who wants to hang out, text, talk, do dinner, do drinks, get a taco, catch up, whatever we call maintaining relationships when I haven’t put words down. They’re the problem, obviously, those people I call my friends and my family who have the fucking gall to want to talk to me. I’ll tell myself I’m being an asshole, and what’s an hour? I can go get dinner. It’s just an hour. I’m not writing anyway. Then I’ll come home and open my laptop, realize I’ve forgotten where I was going with that, and that was crap anyway. Never again. Stop going out. Stop answering text messages, you idiot. If you answer, they just send more. Don’t make plans. Plans means you have to show up and you’ll be pissed you did.

Fuck that. Make plans. Do dinner. Answer the texts. You want to have friends on the other side of this? You need people. You need to clean your apartment and do laundry. You need to write. Anything. Put words down. It’ll work eventually. Who the fuck is texting now.

The fuck is wrong with you. Don’t be a dick. It’s not their fault you selfish ass. Jesus. You have friends, poor you. Keep it to your inner circle and you’ll be fine. Stop saying yes to everything and maybe you’ll have time for those who matter. You have agents to say no for you. How many times have they told you this. You can do this. Get back to the cafe. Figure out a schedule. Stop staying up until 2am fucking off. You could’ve been writing. Maybe eat something besides eggs.

Calm the fuck down. March is a long way away. You didn’t even really start writing your last until November and it was due in February and that first draft was crap. You’re better at second drafts. You know this. You just need a first. You can fix a first. You can’t fix a blank page. Put some words down. But call the dentist. Go to the post office.

Tomorrow. Just put words down today. Anything. You’ll feel better. Woody needs to go out. Your accountant needs another document. Your printer needs ink. You need to call your dad. Maybe tomorrow.

(Notice there is not a single request for advice in the above sentences.)