I spent yesterday and the early part of this morning prepping for a colonoscopy. I realize this isn’t the stuff slices are typically made of but I find myself bemused by my reaction to the circumstances.
Although this one isn’t the first one, and thank goodness it’s only routine,to say I absolutely HATE it is a serious understatement.
I hate the way the stuff tastes even when mixed with my choice of a clear glass of something.
I hate the feeling of being hungry even though eating is that last thing I want to do when I’m getting ready for this thing.
I hate the anxiety it causes.
I hate having to rely upon my husband to get me to the doc’s office and wait to take me home.
I hate the way I feel as the anesthesia is wearing off.
I hate losing two days.
I hate talking about it.
But yet, I whine. I complain. I pity myself. I want my mommy.
I realize things could be oh-so-much worse. I’m relieved and grateful that I passed the test.
But as I reflect upon my attitude, I am baffled. No matter how much mental armor I don, my efforts at being able to go with the flow are thwarted even before I take the first sip of the revolting potion.
I’m sorry for bellyaching. But did I mention how much I hate it?