I will turn 50 in a few days. Lately, this impending milestone has put me in a contemplative mood. While taking stock of where I stand after five decades, I can’t help but wonder about my health. Naturally, thoughts turn to the glorious posterior for which I’m so well known. How’s everything going back there? Desiring a definitive answer to that question, I commit to getting the routine colonoscopy that doctors recommend for men of my vintage.

Yes, it is long past time to let some stranger who did reasonably well in med school breach my rear portal and inspect the compartment that lies beyond. The prospect leaves me anxious but hopeful.

I’m as modern as the next guy, provided the next guy is a soon-to-be 50-year-old hetero former Mormon raised in a Western Canadian suburb, but it’ll be a special occasion to have someone, medical professional or civilian, going IN through my OUT door.

For this mid-life rite of passage, I am referred to a nearby internal medicine clinic. They ask me to come in on a Tuesday for the pre-screening (basic paperwork, blood pressure check, ECG) and to book my colonoscopy. During that visit, I am informed they have an opening for my opening on the coming Friday. Lucky me! This leaves just enough lead time to carry out the days-long preparation that is essential for a successful colorectal deep dive.

You see, they need your lower chamber to be spic’n’span to provide an unobstructed view for the scope’s camera. This makes it easy to spot any polyps, tumours, or long-forgotten contraband hidden from the prying eyes of customs officials. 

This preparation will include a prescribed diet followed by fasting, and I assure the nurse I am up to the task. She says she believes me.

They instruct me to eat only low-fibre foods – think white bread, mashed potatoes (no skins), plain pasta, white rice, and applesauce. I am allowed to consume all these exotic delights, albeit in small-ish portions. This is annoying yet bearable, but as the day goes by I become hyper-aware of all the more flavourful items in our kitchen.

I drink lots of water and clear veggie broth, but the cleansing process is helped along/launched into white-knuckle overdrive by the contents of a box I brought home from the clinic. Inside, I find three sachets of medical grade, fruit-flavoured powder and some detailed instructions for use. The large sachet is for Dose 1, which comes into play the evening before my procedure, while the two smaller sachets are to be combined for Dose 2, which I will drink on the morning of. 

I dissolve the powder of Dose 1 in half a litre of water. The fasting portion of the prep started 11 hours ago and the artificial fruit aroma sets my mouth watering. The resulting liquid is viscous, and the uncanny flavour (mango for Dose 1, fruit punch for Dose 2) carries a strong note of what I’ll call “pharmaceutical magic”. It makes for an unpleasant drinking experience that I suppose befits the purpose. I’m not even halfway through Dose 1 before a deep rumbling emanates from somewhere in my sub-basement. The word foreboding was made for moments like this.

The instructions for this nerve-wracking concoction warn you to “stay within easy reach of an unoccupied toilet”. It should say “sit on the toilet and don’t get up until the tempest has blown itself out, then seal that bathroom for good because you should never use it again”. You know that thing when you partially cover the end of a garden hose with your thumb to create a forceful but imprecise spray? That’s the phenomenon that takes over my unmentionable orifice. The velocity and frequency are stunning. The storm rages for a couple of hours, but when I decide to relinquish all control, the experience becomes liberating. I feel like I’m breaking on through to the other side.

I spring out of bed on C-Day, unexpectedly spry. Maybe fasting (with extreme voiding) is good for me? I join my wife in the kitchen to consume a hearty breakfast comprised of two glasses of water and entertain thoughts of making a 24-hour fast part of my weekly routine from now on. Just imagine, I’ll be like some Silicon Valley productivity guru who bioengineers his bulletproof body and…man oh man, my wife looks like she’s really enjoying those scrambled eggs. The coffee smells incredible. God damn, is it hot in here or is it just me? What the hell was I talking about again?

A short time later, I drink Dose 2. I love the viscosity now. At least it has substance. The after-effect is a repeat of last night but this time around, the stuff that spews from my back passage looks the same as the stuff that normally comes out my front passage.

I’ll admit, that sounds disgusting, but it means that my diligence with the prep work has paid off. With two hours to go till the procedure, I am an empty vessel. This is very good, because more than anything, I don’t want to have to do this over again.

My wife has offered to drive me to the clinic and back. We consider taking the subway because it would also be quick and easy but the prep sheet from the clinic says that right after all that rooting around in your root cellar, you may experience uncontrollable flatulence. I figure my wife would be more understanding than a train full of weary commuters and opt for the drive. Does that make me a bad husband? Perhaps. But does it mean I’m considerate of my fellow citizens? Absolutely. And you’re welcome.

By the time we arrive at the clinic, I’m so hungry that I beg the staff to hurry up and violate me in any way they see fit as long as I can have a sandwich after. My desire for food has become a dark, perverted, Cronenberg-esque lust.

I’m convinced the clinic could make a killing if, right after the procedure, they wheeled you into a small dining room where you would pay astronomical prices to gorge on rich, savoury dishes. Alas, they don’t have my knack for million-dollar ideas. I will have to wait until I am back home to satisfy my cravings.

They usher me into the examination room, where I am instructed to get rid of pants and underwear, then don a pair of blue paper short pants they’ve provided. I am allowed to keep my socks on, which is a blessing because the fasting has left my extremities ice cold. My blood pressure is taken and I am asked to lie on my side while the knock out drug is pumped into my depleted system. The doctor says some reassuring things, then I am told to imagine a happy place and count to five. Before I can decide between picturing an alpine meadow or the Toronto Raptors 2019 championship parade, I am out like a light.

When I come to, the doctor and her team are not done. Still putting the finishing touches on what they no doubt saw as their masterpiece. Even though I wake up with them inside me, I am completely unperturbed. Under non-medical circumstances, it’s the kind of thing that might give me a start. I guess that’s how I know they used high-quality sedatives.

My first thought after emerging from the drug haze is to wonder what the doctor and nurses talked about while off-roading in my undercarriage. The weather? Weekend plans? Politics (“Speaking of assholes, did you guys see the mayor on TV last night?”)? Maybe they critiqued my colon, and if so, I hope they liked what they saw. My colonoscopy was the last one on a Friday and I want their work week to end on a high note.

Once the anatomical spelunking apparatus is withdrawn from my point of egress, I rise on unsteady legs and get dressed, a changed man. Changed for the better, as I find out minutes later. The doctor hands me a sheet of extremely graphic photos, snapped moments earlier inside my flesh and blood man cave, then delivers the good news — they found and removed two polyps, but my half-century-old sacred alcove is otherwise in top condition. How’s that for some peace of mind?

After high fives all around, my wife escorts me to the car and takes me back to our apartment. The drive home was uneventful. Half-stoned as I was, we heard nary a peep from any of my openings. Upon arrival, I promptly go to town on two sandwiches, a few pieces of fruit, a handful of olives, a whole frozen pizza, and a pickle. Is it the best meal I’ve ever had in my life? In a way, yes. But also a little anti-climactic. Maybe all the denial and yearning built it up too much in my head. In that way, it’s the culinary equivalent of losing my virginity.

In the end (PUN ALERT!!!), I’m quite pleased to have taken advantage of this wildly invasive but potentially life-saving procedure. Had I waited a few more years my results might not have been so rosy. When I say it like that, a colonoscopy is the best 50th birthday gift I could ask for.

It’s definitely the most age-appropriate.