As I was saying...
On the phone, the colonoscopy doctor was rambling on and on, telling me I likely caught a “parasite” from some country I’ve never been to. As I sat wondering which of Dad’s meals might have infected me with the damn germ, I was advised of the next diagnostic step. Which was basically this: I was to “produce” a stool sample, put it in a prescription bag, and hand it to a person at the lab. And I was to do this for three days running. No pun intended.
So off to the lab I go to pick up the kit—which consisted of three sealed containers, each with some apparently poisonous liquid in the bottom (the box had a warning not to consume the liquid in the vials prior to testing). OK, I thought. Crummy. But easy.
I’ll spare you the gory details…let’s just say that on Morning #1, I quickly followed what I reasoned to be the correct procedure. The instructions on the box said to store all “specimens” in the refrigerator until this three-day procedure was completed. Done and done.
On Morning #2, I sat on the toilet once again. As I waited for nature to do its job, I suddenly noticed a 2” square paper in the lab container bag. It was folded multiple times, much like a road map. When I opened it, it turned out to be a 12” by 12” two-sided list of detailed directions written in 10 different languages. At the top was a simple pictorial diagram, presumably to provide “universal” symbols of the instructions for anyone illiterate.
Dumfounded, I started to read the fine, tiny, unreadable English print. There, before my strained eyes, was a picture of a toilet with a slash through it, similar to a “no trucks” sign. Yesterday I did not SEE this sign… (I figured I knew the steps—what an asshole!) I continued with reading and straining—both my eyes and my bowels—and it said not to get the poops wet! Shit, I put yesterday’s soaked ones in the poison containers and conveniently kept them in the refrigerator (I didn’t tell anyone where) and they are ALL WRONG. Decisions, decisions…then and there, I made up my mind. I’m not telling the lab. I’m just handing them the bag.
Seriously: can you imagine finding these directions and trying to make sense of them? (Please forgive the off-color entries written in my moment of angst!)
This agitated me. Not only did I read it too late, but the instructions – intricate as they were – were still confusing.
For example: I’m guessing the second picture is meant to show that the liquids involved are toxic, and the the third image instructs you to keep everything out of reach of children. But what’s with that first picture? Is that the “universal symbol” for confronting something really lousy?
Within a few weeks, I got word that my lab tests were negative, which translated to a positive: No parasites. Needless to say, I was happy to put the whole colonoscopy issue, with all its sloppy ramifications, behind me.
I was so happy, in fact, that I wanted to share my feelings of relief with my brother Gregory. On one of the next Sundays we shared together at Dad’s, the two of us were in the kitchen doing the dishes. Dad was wiping crumbs from the dining table in the family room, out of earshot, so I thought it was safe to share firsthand information of a medical nature…
I advised Greg that it’s in his best interest to get a colonoscopy, and that the procedure really isn’t so bad. He asked, “So, did they find anything?”
I said, “Yes…three polyps.”
“THREE POLYYPS???” I suddenly heard a thundering roar from behind me. It was Dad, his eyes aghast. The dirty plates from the dinner table were actually rattling in his hands. And the subdued, on-the-sneak conversation between Greg and me was suddenly drowned out by a massive and emphatic lecture.
“Don’t make the colossal mistake of leaving fiber out of your diet. You know better than that!” Dad’s facial expression conveyed total astonishment and disapproval, and his tone of voice would make one think I had just flunked out of high school. To him, any hint of an illness was a sign I had done something wrong—and as a result, I was “…all messed up.” So he now decided it was his job to undo the damage and prescribe a meal plan guaranteed to keep me polyp-free. (PS: Dad could have been growing a polyp farm in his own intestine, but he didn’t know—and neither did we—because he’d never had a colonoscopy in his life!)
“Life and vitality are stimulated by fiber, and when it is absent or reduced, both quality of life and vitality reduce in proportion,” Dad stated. I thought I was in a high school biology class with a teacher who was faking it to impress the students. “You want a plate full of high-fiber nutrients,” he went on. “I would recommend cole slaw, collard greens, Brussel sprouts, okra and (the old standby) sauerkraut.”
I can just imagine the foreign concoctions bubbling on the stove at Dad’s next Sunday meal.
I just hope his dog is good and hungry.
Hey there ~ Great stuff, will definitely come back very soon !
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Great article! I like it very much!
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The best line ever: “Dad could have been growing a polyp farm in his own intestine…”
I am not very great with English but I find this very leisurely to translate.