Trena Eiden

Gar decided he needed a colonoscopy. It had been 10 years since his last one and apparently, he enjoyed it and wanted a redo. In the past, if you wanted one and who wouldn’t, you called your doctor and he set it up. Those days are gone because somebody realized they could get another dollar from your wallet. Now you have to meet with qualifiers.  

On Monday we met with the gastroenterologist’s PA, aka the qualifier, who went through a clipboard of questions about Gar’s health. Gar passed with flying colors so with the date set, we went to the market for clear liquids Gar could drink the day before the procedure. We bought broth, Gatorade, tea and lime Jello, and as instructed, nothing red or purple. On Tuesday, Gar went to the pharmacy for the prep. It was supposed to come with two simethicone tablets, but didn’t. On Thursday, I left work early and we drove a hundred miles to stay at a motel in the city of the surgery center. The first prep was that evening at 5 sharp which produced expected results lasting all night long. I wasn’t cognizant of this because I hadn’t fallen off the turnip truck yesterday, and thus I’d booked a room with two beds, and I wore earplugs. My devotion only goes so far.  

The second prep began at 4 a.m. and when the alarm clock went off, I asked Gar if he had simethicone. He did, the ones he always keeps in his “makeup” bag. I frowned and inquired, “Aren’t those cherry?” Why yes, they were. I explained those were off limits due to being red. Then I told him nine more times because truly, my greatest gift is kicking a guy that’s down. He thought I was overreacting because “the tablets were pink, not red.” I was pretty unhappy and may have bared my teeth at him. He might have made the sign of the cross.  

At 6 a.m. I entered the motel lobby asking if they sold Gas-X in their room kept for people who didn’t know to bring the right medication. Nope. Not to be deterred, I went to the motel next door. Nope, but this front desk lady told me there was a gas station up the street on the opposite side at the corner, then said something incredibly helpful, “And be sure and look both ways before crossing the street.”  Well, if I must. It was 3 degrees and I was in a thin pullover sweater. I considered getting the car, but I’m not bright so walked to the gas station, but of course, they didn’t have any either. 

Walking back to our motel room, I used my phone to look up Walgreens and saw they opened at 6 a.m. Finally, something was going my way. I got in our vehicle, followed directions and pulled up in front of the store. The door sign said they opened at 7 a.m. Online liars. Sighing, I went to Walmart where they didn’t let me down, then drove back to our motel and gave the purchase to my guy, who still considered me a nut because pink surely doesn’t equate to red. I might have told him to stay safe and stop talking. At 1 p.m. on the dot we arrived at the surgical center. From the time they came for Gar until the moment they brought him back to me, only 15 minutes lapsed. What? All the work and driving and money and starving, him not me, not to mention all the pooping like it’s your job, and the actual procedure took 10 minutes? Why? Well, no tumors, polyps or biopsies-clean as a whistle. I’m grateful but really, 10 minutes? I felt they should take him back for another round. I wanted my money’s worth.  

On the way home, Gar told me Humana hadn’t paid for the colon prep. I called to ask why, and the woman on the other end of the phone said it wasn’t on his prescription list. Then she said a curious thing, “If you’ll give me a moment, I can see which meds we pay for and your husband can do it again in a few days.” I paused, realized she was young and a dunce, so explained, “It’s a colonoscopy, it happens every 10 years not every 10 days.” I asked Gar if he’d like to give it a go again next week, but he frowned like I’d asked him to try on my new thigh-high, black, patent leather boots. Guess not.