Our colons – my bride’s ‘n mine – appeared almost unused, judging from the pictures. Which I won’t share with you, you’ll have to take our word for it. The stuff they’ve seen digested in fifty one years. My God.
We were both put on the ten year followup plan.
As the Versed tickled my GABAA receptors, my last malformed sentence to the gastro-guy must’ve sounded like Mr. Bill under the broiler.
In recovery, still somewhat mush-mouthed, I asked when I could expect the doctor to come by and share the results with me. “He was just here, Mr. Nibbe,” said the nurse.
Well, yes, of course he was… just here. I thought. At least I think I thought.
Well aware of the half-life of Versed the nurse wasn’t the least bit concerned by my brain fart, and reminded me to expect more than the average number of usual farts in the next hour or so.
“It’s not gas,” she reassured me. “Merely medical air. Don’t resist expelling it.”
I lost four pounds prepping for the procedure. I now have the same revulsion for Jello and chicken broth as I did for Peach Schnapps in high school.
The evening after the procedure, when solid food was once again indicated, I put back on two of the four pounds.
Moral: never, ever, take mastication for granted.