MY COLONOSCOPY

I was so scared to get a colonoscopy. Not because I didn’t want a camera stuck up my ass, that part sounded kind of avante guarde and chic. But because I didn’t want to do the prep. I knew, based on countless friends and YouTube videos, that twenty-four hours before I went in for my procedure, I was going to have to wean myself off food. Even saying it now causes my cortisol levels to spike.

I can’t starve myself. Maybe it’s the PTSD from decades of being anorexic, or perhaps it’s the fact that I use food as a stand-in for the love and attachment I didn’t get in childhood. Whatever the reason, I can’t stomach the thought of an empty stomach.

At the end of the month, I turn forty-six, and I promised Katie Couric that I’d check this off my bucket list at forty-five. Time was running out, and I needed nudes of my colon fast.

In a panic, I contacted my gastroenterologist, Dr. Jennifer Bonheur, and begged her to see me. Shew moved mountains and anuses to make it happen. Jen knew me well enough to know that I couldn’t do an afternoon appointment. Anything after ten am, and I would have caved and made myself an almond milk latte.