First off, you need to do it. You know you do.
It's one of those "responsible adult" things. It's the sort of thing you promised yourself you'd do when you got married or had kids or looked in the mirror and realized something had to change because "bloodshot" is not an actual eye color.
And, let's face it: Of all the health-related, big-boy things you're going to get involved with, a colonoscopy certainly involves the least amount of work on your part. Heck, you're not even awake for most of it.
However, what you've undoubtedly heard is true. The stuff they make you drink is horrible.
Actually, it may be a little north of horrible, on its way to epicly awful. A long and sincere debate could be held over what's worse, the taste or the texture. Problem is, the answer is "yes."
Even given that you will not have had anything to eat all day except chicken broth and some green Jell-o you found in the back of the fridge (thank goodness coffee and Diet Dr. Pepper were allowed, or homicides were more than likely), this stuff is tough to get down.
Describing the taste is a little tough, but I go with a combination of Lemon Pledge and Death. With a hint of pumpkin spice. Because it's that time of year and everything has a hint of pumpkin spice.
Now the purpose of this Devil's Brew is to, shall we say, make it possible for an unobstructed view of your colon to be available. Either that or someone just wants you to have an answer the next time you're asked, "what's the worst thing you ever drank?" Whatever the intent, two birds definitely get killed with one foul-tasting stone.
Just in case you have a hard time making up your mind about how bad this stuff tastes, you'll have lots of opportunity to consider, since the required dose is about five gallons, taken at 15-minute intervals for about half a day. This is, of course, an exaggeration. But not much of one.
There is a bright side to this. For one thing, if you're one of those people who has a hard time deciding what to do at night, you're in luck. Once you start taking this stuff, the decision will definitely be made for you. And if you've got about a year's worth of magazines and the second half of "War And Peace" you've been wanting to finish, well, don't worry. You'll have plenty of time.
Here's the really bright side -- that's the worst of it. Seriously. Oh, there are some vague indignities, such as the "one size actually fits no one" hospital gown you have to change into but can't possibly tie unless you're Houdini.
However, the cool boxers they give you to wear are very comfortable, even if the flap is in the back (for obvious reasons we won't go into here). Almost makes up for the socks with the sticky designs on them that keep you from being able to run and slide in the hallway. At least not very far.
In addition, the person taking you back to where the actual process is done will politely but firmly decline to see how fast a hospital bed will go, even if you promise to lean into the turns. The anesthesiologist will almost certainly insist on using the products with which he is familiar, even though you assure him after about four fingers of your medication of choice you'll be out like a light.
At some point, they will insist on waking you up and there doesn't appear to be any snooze button, despite the fact that you'll be experiencing a full-bore, just after lunch, Sunday afternoon, golf on TV worthy nap.
And, considering they've awakened you from the aforementioned incredible nap, they might give you a few moments to remember you were there for a colonoscopy and not a CAT scan when they say they didn't find anything.
And they didn't, which is both good news and means I'm just going to have to find something else to worry about.
You've got to do it. You know you do. The good news is, it isn't so bad. The better news is, when it's over, you know that. And whatever happens, you know what you have to do.
GARY SMITH IS A RECOVERING JOURNALIST WHO LIVES IN ROGERS.
Commentary on 12/11/2014