End – o – scopy
Today is November 6, 2025 — a very enter - esting day. Oops — maybe I’d better say ender - esting?
Anyhow, that’s how it felt to me. As for the day before — well, more like all night before — that was a floater. Yep, you should’ve seen the size of that jug they gave me and said, “Drink this — all of it — at least 10 hours before your endoscopy is scheduled.”
Being a floater was perhaps an understatement. That’s when I came to the rude realization that I wasn’t going to have a peaceful night.
I was already suspicious that would be the case. That feeling gripped me the moment I read, “What are some things I need to know or do while I take this drug? Tell all of your health care providers that you take your drug. This includes your doctors, nurses, pharmacists and dentists.”
“Rut-row,” my brain squeaked. “Every one of them is in bed at this time of night! There’s no way to tell them!”
Furthermore, I resented that wording “take your drug” — like I’m some kind of addict.
Oh well, probably simple stuff. Better read on and find out why the big fuss. Let’s see: “What are some side effects that I need to call my doctor about right away?”
Then came the list: rash, hives, itching, red, swollen, blistered or peeling skin; wheezing; tightness in the chest or throat; trouble breathing, swallowing or talking; swelling of the mouth, face, lips, tongue or throat; dizziness, sudden chest pain, change in balance, confusion, hallucinations, fever, abnormal heartbeat, serotonin syndrome, throwing up, muscle twitching, trouble breathing.
Oh, that’s all? Nope. “Stomach pain, swelling of the stomach area — call your doctor right away.”
My brain yelled, “Don’t do that!” while my feet braced against moving closer to that jug. Both hands locked firmly behind me, I was totally immobile. Yet there stood the jug, boldly on my countertop. Of all times to think of that old country western song “There Stands the Glass” — knowing I couldn’t avoid it any more than the feller in the song.
Yet I plunged ahead, obedient to doctors’ orders like a simple-minded robot. I was wishing the drink could bring me the quick, sweet oblivion of the jug in the song. Rationally, I knew I couldn’t even hope for that — and if it could, I’d better remove the rug from the bathroom floor, cover it with old newspapers, strip and be firmly seated on the toilet before I lifted the jug.
Further down the page I read, “Do not share your drugs with others and do not take anyone else’s drugs.”
Oh my! I’m going to become one of those poor souls who populate big city slums, living under railroad tracks and in window wells — pale, bony wraiths chained forever to their habit. Only I won’t even get to enjoy the high or oblivion … plus I’ll be covered in nasty, stinking bodily fluids.
Somehow, I managed to turn off my mind and blindly follow all the instructions.
Hours later (and undoubtedly pounds lighter), I slipped into the sweet oblivion of sleep — only to awaken with a start. I hurriedly dressed, combed my hair and climbed into the car to be ferried some hours away to yet another medical facility.
The correct doors and corridors were found. I was tagged (thankful they didn’t tie it to my toe like a corpse). I managed to strip and don a cold cotton gown with no back, handed to me along with directions to place my clothes in a nearby locker.
That done, I was pointed toward a cold gurney so high I had to climb on a stool to sit on it. When a kind nurse came through the door and eased my shivering with a very warm, soft blanket tucked tightly around me, I was certain I’d been transported out of that devilish dream directly into heaven. Ahhh. Soon she fitted a mask over my mouth and nose, and I slid even faster into total peace.
I awoke to more warm blankets as my bed moved me to a comfortable sitting position, with extra pillows placed behind me. The wonderful nurse even brought me a cup of coffee after asking if I took cream or sugar.
I managed a few sips before the kind-eyed, soft-spoken medical specialist — my doctor that day — sat down to enlighten me.
“Your procedure went well,” he said. “We found a couple of small polyps, clipped samples from them and examined them under the microscope. I’m happy to report we found no cancer cells or abnormalities.”
Smiling, he asked if I had any further questions.
I shook my head, let out my bated breath, silently thanked God, thanked the doctor and told him how ecstatic I felt about that news. Then I blurted, “How long will it be before I can eat, and where’s the closest place you’d recommend?”
He shook my hand and said he’d let his nurse give me that information, certain she’d do a better job of it. Better or not, she certainly did a fine job recommending a nearby spot for an excellent meal.
Both my driver and I did an equally fine job of selecting and enjoying that meal. We turned homeward, thanking God for the great results and asking for his protection and angels around us on the drive. God answered — and home never looked sweeter.