Well, the good news is I don’t cancer. The less-good news is I still don’t know what the frig is going on with me, although now that the colon cancer thing is off the table, I’m far less concerned.
Honestly, I have very little faith in doctors. Most of the times that I really needed their help (beyond a cold or sinus thing or whatever), they didn’t help at all and you know what they do when they can’t figure out what’s wrong with you? They tell you you’re depressed (which naturally reminds me of the depressed vagina episode on Sex and the City) because if they can’t figure it out in two 10 minute office visits and a panel of routine labs, then it MUST be in your head. Well, should THAT happen again, the joke will be on them because I’ll be all I’M ALREADY ON THE HAPPY PILLS, DUMBASSES!
So yeah, I successfully attended and completed Asscam09 and I have to tell you that while I was worried on many fronts (and mentally composing my last will and testament and goodbye letters to my kids) I need not have worried about the actual mechanics of having a camera put my ass (or people pointing and laughing at my cellulite) because once the guy put the Propofol in my IV, I seriously cared about nothing more than going to sleep, which I did in about a nanosecond.
I hesitate to say this but I can see why Michael Jackson was demanding the stuff to help him sleep. It’s pleasant and because it’s not a narcotic, you have no shakes or nausea or itching or other sucktastic side effects. They finished the asscam, they woke me up and I was in the car and on my way home within 20 minutes, feeling totally normal. What’s crazy is that it took 3 hours of waiting and prepping and waiting for a ten minute procedure. Seriously, this place was an Asscam MILL. It’s all they do and there were a TON of people in the waiting room.
Speaking of the waiting room, I made the mistake of not bringing my phone and some nineteen year old kid was hogging the ONLY decent magazine, a three month old copy of Rolling Stone. He must have known I wanted it (I was staring at it HARD, psychically willing it to fly from his hands into mine) because he picked up another magazine and KEPT the Rolling Stone on his lap….totally taunting me. I was about to walk over and grab it and run away with it when they finally called me into the back. Note to self: NEVER willingly leave your phone at home ever again. You missed a golden opportunity to tweet some really great laxative jokes…
Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that when you turn 50 and have to go for a routine asscam, it’s not that bad. Just make sure they give you the Michael Jackson drug and NOT the crappy el cheapo grande nitrous. And bring your own magazine.
I the interest of being consistent (and possibly developing a reputation for only writing about poop and ass-related things), I’m over at Aiming Low today with a funnier, albeit somewhat grosser story about something that happened to me last week. Come by and visit. We’re a lot of fun!