* * A colonoscopy is no laughing matter!

Denise Fish is dead. She was a dear friend, a tiny, funny woman from Seattle. She died too young from colon cancer. Before she passed, she said to me once, “Colonoscopies are icky, but colon cancer is a million times worse.”

So I had one done recently.

Colon and rectal are among the most curable cancers, provided they are discovered early. That’s what the colonoscopy is for. As funny as I am going to attempt to make this article, this is serious, folks.

The routine was explained to me by Dr. Chava, a thin, dark-haired gastroenterologist in Blacksburg, who was going to do it for me. She seemed like a nice person, especially for someone who was planning to shove a long, garden-hose-like device up my hinterparts. It was difficult keeping sincere eye contact with a woman who was soon to be looking closely into an orifice that most people try to look away from. She was able to ask what seemed to be reasonable questions about bowel movements and stool consistency with an unflinching, earnest face and professional demeanor.

She sent me away with a “procedure” date and a proscription for what I could only describe as projectile poison.

You see, without getting too graphic here, when someone wants to take a close look into your exhaust plumbing, it must be free of, well, exhaust material.

The instructions on the package said, and I quote, “Drink only clear liquids that taste like toad spit 24 hours prior. Mix this toxic powder with 600 gallons of water, enough to fill a child’s swimming pool. Then, pinch your nose and swallow it.”

I did this dutifully, waiting patiently for whatever might result. I didn’t have to wait long! Let’s just say that when things got going, they moved with a vengeance. The word “explosive” comes to mind. Our commode became my best companion, as I spent most of the afternoon on it. I took a good book.

The next morning, I reported to the hospital where the “procedure” was to happen. They gave me a blue gown, which covered my obverse adequately, if not the reverse. A nurse plunged an IV needle into the back of my wrist, chiding me for suggesting that it felt like the sting of 1000 hornets.

Anyway, we made juvenile poop jokes while they wheeled my bed into the “procedure” room where Dr. Chava said re-assuring things before the Sandman visited. (Translation: I slept through the whole thing.)

In my next moment of awareness, I was in the “recovery” room where I was unknowingly saying things my wife would later tease me about.

Before I share the result, let me say boldly and loudly that health care charges are %$@#%# insane! My invoice was $2668 from the hospital, $576 from the anesthesiologist, $448 from the doctor, and $437 from the pathologist. What’s particularly maddening is that the hospital’s “regular” charge was $9084, but due to the special relationship they have with my insurance company, it was only $2668! What’s with that? I ran a manufacturing company once. For our products we charged a combination of parts and labor, tempered by the marketplace. The hospital seemingly can charge anything they want! Do they have some spin-the-wheel random price generator? As I understand it, some poor uninsured schlimazel would pay triple what my insurance company pays. If the hospital can cover their costs by charging $2668, how can they morally justify charging an individual $9084?

It’s no wonder our health care system is in crisis. I’m still wondering if somewhere I can have this done next time for, say, $216.87, particularly if I’m willing to go on a slow day.

Anyway, everything was deemed a success. I was shown photos of what looked like a pink subway tunnel without any trains in it that apparently was my insides.

As soon as I could stand up unaided, they kicked me out. (Not really! I swear it! They were very nice and I’m sure I could have stayed all afternoon if I’d simply said, “I’m still groggy. May I have another popsicle?”)

A couple of weeks later, still recovering from sticker shock, I returned to Dr. Chava’s office. She said she removed a polyp about the size of a small pea that she sent to the lab. But there was no cancer. So I am now able to resume telling tasteless proctology jokes until the next time, scheduled for five years hence.

So remember what Denise Fish said: cancer is awful and it might kill you. So right now, today, if you’re over 50 and haven’t done it, get your colon looked at by Dr. Chava or some other nice doctor, and extend your life.