that thing ya gotta do

I remember my internist saying to me, "If you do it and they find something, they remove it and you're fine. If you don't do it and there's something to be found, you die." And so I do it.

My first was in 2003.

My second was six years later.

And now, my third, is scheduled for tomorrow.

A few days ago I pick up my prescription. It's called, Prepopik.  The pharmacist hands it to me, smiles and says, "Your doctor must really like you." When I ask what he means he explains, "This one's pretty easy."

Day Before

I wake up craving coffee knowing I can't have any (all dairy is out). And no solid foods are allowed, meaning muffins are excluded.  I go to a BAFTA Board meeting and am home by 10, starving.  I head over to buy my nourishment for the day (all water not shown).



It all looks so unappetizing. And, by the way, non-red jello is not so easy to find. 

Evening Before

Last time I remember gagging on lots of horrid-tasting drinks. This time, I only have to down 5 ounces of some tart-tasting (only partially disgusting) powdery stuff mixed with water. At 5:00 I take it, followed over the next few hours by 40 ounces of clear liquid (mostly water).

I eat almost nothing all day —  one fruit bar (lunch) and chicken stock for dinner.  It tastes odd. I later discover there's a difference between chicken stock (made more from bones) and chicken broth (made more from meat).

But overall, the prepping is pretty easy. It's the limited diet that's hard.


Morning Of

At 5:30 I get up and take another 5 ounces of the powdery drink followed by 24 ounces of clear liquid. Not much happens and now I'm worried.

What if I get there and they send me home?  That's my worst nightmare. 

The rules require someone to pick me up when I'm ready to leave the facility, around 1:30.

At 9:30 my phone rings. I need to be out the door in about an hour. "Hi." It's Alexander who's in Philadelphia with some friends. I know before he says a word what he's going to say.

"Look, I'm really really sorry but I can't make it home in time to pick you up. Can you find someone else?"  Grrrrrrrrrr.

I call my good friend Gail, last minute, who lives in the neighborhood of the facility. My only reluctance in calling her is that I know she'll say yes, and go overboard in helping me.

Afternoon Of

I check in. Sign a million forms. Change into a little blue outfit. Get wheeled into the room. Say hi to my doctor. And meet the anesthesiologist. I love going under. I'm out in under five seconds. But then I wake up about five minutes before my doctor's finished. I feel nothing. But still. I'm just glad this isn't open heart surgery.

My doctor tells me every thing is fine.

Gail is waiting for me when I'm ready to leave. She's already called up twice to see if I need any help. I don't.

I come downstairs and she's waiting for me, adorned in subtle purple eye shadow in celebration of Prince, and carrying a bottle of Evian for me. Since Gail lives only a few blocks from the facility, I had made her promise that she'd just walk me out. But of course Gail breaks that promise. "Absolutely not. I am taking you home."  She then insists on taking a cab uptown with me, paying for it, walking me to the door of my apartment (not my apartment building), then taking a cab back home.  Her generosity and kindness overwhelm me.  I am so lucky to have her as my friend.

Late afternoon

Looking forward to a nice dinner. Seeing Alexander who'll now be home around 8. And not having to do this for another ten years.