Ten Year Flood

Decennial Census, also known as the Population and Housing Census, is designed to count every resident in the United States. It is mandated by Article I, Section 2 of the Constitution and takes place every 10 years. The data collected by the decennial census determine the number of seats each state has in the U.S. House of Representatives and is also used to distribute hundreds of billions of dollars in federal funds to local communities.

The census tells us who we are and where we are going as a nation, and helps our communities determine where to build everything from schools to supermarkets, and from homes to hospitals. It helps the government decide how to distribute funds and assistance to states and localities. It is also used to draw the lines of legislative districts and reapportion the seats each State holds in Congress. [1]

Also happening every 10 years is my colonoscopy. As a matter of fact, I get my notification from the government and my doctor at almost the same time.

Now here is something interesting: remember when you were a kid, there was a little song we learned which helped us to spell Mississippi. If you use that same tune you can sing “Col-ono-scopy. It used to be so hard to spell, it almost made me cry. Col-ono-scopy.” Cheryl says if she hears me sing it one more time, she’s going to punch my face right off my head.

One day I opened the mailbox and found an envelope from the United States Census Bureau and another from the local Gastro-Endo center. One envelope says to me they want personal data from my family. The other says they want personal data from my endo.

Four weeks later, after a trip to the local Walgreens, I had in my hands a box of Liquid Fury. It was labeled PEG-3350, and I wondered if she was an inmate at the women’s prison who formulated powders. Maybe it was her way of getting revenge. The rest of the ingredients were also printed on the box and would only make sense to a chemist. It was the pharmaceutical company’s way of saying, “Mmm, mmm, good!”

Approximately 24 hours before the procedure, the instructions said to quit eating solid foods. From then on it was to be only liquids, like liquid bacon and liquid eggs. At T-minus 18 hours and counting, the first 2 liters of the Liquid Fury were to be drunk. The suggestion for ingestion was to use a straw and sip with the liquid being at room temperature. If I start feeling nauseous, I should slow the ingestion rate down until the nauseous feeling subsided and then resume.

Perhaps. But why draw out the agony? If I drink it fast or slow, the result will be the same in the end and really, what would a real man do? Guzzle it!

With the powder poured into the two-liter container of water, I smelled the exotic lemon flavors filling the air. How bad could it be I thought? Preferring my drinks shaken, not stirred, I shook the effervescent concoction until the powder was dissolved. I then put the container to my lips and filled my mouth.

“What the. . . What manner of devil’s swill is this? Lemon flavored salt water?”

I looked at the 2-liter container minus one mouthful. “Peg-3350, are you on death row?”

“Ok, this is bad so let’s get it over fast.” Standing at the sink pretending it was Greek Lemon Chicken Soup, I guzzled it down. With a slight belch and the satisfaction of knowing that it was over, I went in and sat down in front of the TV.

I would like to take this moment to point out the need for a clear, unobstructed, straight shot to a bathroom; a bathroom in which you have priority. If you have a family of eight, bring in a port-a-potty. When this medicine kicks in, there is no kind way of asking someone to get out of the bathroom. I should have rearranged the couches and living room table prior.

45 minutes after ingesting the Liquid Fury and sitting in front of the TV I felt waves of nauseousness coming over me. My stomach was rumbling with such force I was sure the University of Washington would pick it up as seismic activity in Whatcom County.

“I’m sick. Oh, I’m sick. I’m going to heave!”

Jumping out of my chair I ran in the direction of the bathroom although, as mentioned before, not in a straight path. It was more like over the couch and living room table, much like O.J. Simpson running through the airport in the Hertz commercials.

With my head buried deeply in the toilet bowl, PEG-3350 from the women’s prison cruelly struck again.

“Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle.”

“Oh, come on! Not now!!!”

And the very next day, five hours before the procedure I did it all again with the second 2 liters.

From then on out the procedure was simple: you are driven to the Endo clinic where you are given a cute gown to wear. They stick an IV in the back of your hand. The doctor comes in to say hi and just as I start to make a joke about the Endo clinic, he cranks the sedative on full because he’s heard the joke 1000 times. I close my eyes and open them again to ask the nurse when the procedure starts only to find that it is already over.

The nurse then explains what they found but all I hear is,”Wa, wa, wa, wa, bubblegun,” because my brain is still numb with sedative. She then gives me the photo tour which I get to keep and will be sure to show to my grandkids as the reason you shouldn’t swallow bubblegum. She mentions to me on the way out that soon I will be doing this procedure every five years. Joy to the world.

On the way home, my chaperone reminds me several times what my name is and that the home she is driving me to is actually mine. For some reason I have a gag reflex from the lemonade she is sipping. In my office I open my computer and type a simple letter to Peg-3350, care of the pharmaceutical company. It went: “Dear Peg, I hope all is well with you. Your powder worked great. Try working on the flavor.  As for me, the doctor says I’m fine and everything came out magnificently — at my end.”

[1] US Census Bureau web site.

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