Let’s cut the crap.

No one warned me that my mid-forties would mean getting a formal invite to drink liquid fire and spend the night conducting a full-body exorcism in my bathroom. But here we are! Welcome to middle age folks – where birthdays come with the gift of preventative screenings.

That’s right. Your girl got her first colonoscopy. Not because I had symptoms and not because I was in some urgent danger. Mainy because I’m a cancer survivor, I’m a little anemic, and my family doctor gently suggested I go ahead and get it done since I clearly enjoy being alive.

And let me tell you: it was equal parts horrifying, hilarious, and humbling.

Before the main event even begins, you get to enjoy a delightful 24 hours of being on a clear liquid diet. Nothing solid. No coffee with cream (I wept). No smoothies. No actual food. Just broth, water, apple juice, and Jell-O (as long as it’s not red, which of course eliminates the only decent flavor).

You will become rage-hungry. You define hangry.

But you’ll be glad. Trust me. Because what is about to happen to your body? You do not want solid food involved. You don’t want anything that digests or lingers. You want a stomach so empty, it echoes.

Then comes the main event: At 5PM, you start drinking 8 ounces of hell every 20 minutes until you hit three liters.

THREE. WHOLE. LITERS. That’s not hydration. That’s a hostage situation.

The magic potion was lemony in the way that Lysol is lemony. I was allowed to add any non-red flavoring. I chose Crystal Light lemonade, and I can now say with full confidence I will never drink that shit again unless I’m being held hostage.

I poured it over ice like I was trying to convince myself this was a cocktail. It really helped actually. The first two rounds? Fine. Tolerable even. Saltier gatorade really. By round three? My stomach started growling in demonic chants and my body entered DEFCON 1.

And then the floodgates opened. LITERALLY.

Let me be crystal clear: nothing prepares you for the moment your butt becomes a faucet. This wasn’t a normal bathroom situation. This was Niagara Falls: Ass Edition.

I was in and out of the bathroom like I was clocking in for a paycheck. My husband checked on me once and immediately left with the quiet understanding that I was in the middle of something sacred and maybe a little dangerous.

I gave up on dignity about 45 minutes in. There’s just no coming back from the moment you realize your bathroom break now requires additional hydration, deep breathing, and occasionally descriptive texting.

And just when you think the worst is over…surprise, bitch! You get to do it again.

Yup. You don’t just drink three liters of pharmaceutical drain-o the night before. You also get to wake your sorry, sleep-deprived ass up at 4AM to chug the final liter within an hour. I don’t know who came up with this, but theres a special place in hell for them. Because there I was, hunched over the kitchen sink in the darkness, looking to all the world like a hungover club kid, trying to get that last cold liter of citrus hell into my body before the clock ran out.

Did I sleep after that? Absolutely not. My intestines were in performance mode again. I was doing bathroom laps before most people had started their morning coffee. So if you were thinking, “At least I’ll get a little rest before my procedure,” please understand that was a lie you told yourself to survive. But I promise you – the universe will balance this out for you.

By the time I arrived for my procedure, I was a husk of a woman. Hollowed out, hangry, and already grieving my relationship with lemonade.

The nurses were absolute saints – as they usually are. (Seriously, we don’t deserve nurses.) When I mentioned my abdominal incision from breast reconstruction surgery was sill a little tender and making it tough to roll over on my side, they didn’t even bat an eye. One of the nurses immediately found a little pillow to cushion me while I tried to roll over. I would’ve married her on the spot if I could have.

Also? Shocking plot twist for me – the gown tied in the back. I don’t think I’ve worn a medical gown that opened to the back since before the mastectomy days. It was a deeply strange relief not to have my chest hanging out for once.

I vaguely remember them asking me to roll onto my side and I think I complied, but honestly? Between the pre-drugs and the anxiety…one second, I was making polite conversation about the pillow the next? I was OUT like a light.

Let me tell you: colonoscopy naps SLAP. This is most elite nap in the history of naps. No dreams. No stress. No tossing and turning. Just medically sanctioned unconsciousness in a cozy blanket burrito. (Yes, with a camera up your butt, but you’re in narcotic dreamland, so you don’t care.)

I woke up 20 minutes later to the GI doctor gently explaining that they’d found a couple of polyps – nothing alarming, but they were sending them off for biopsy just to be sure and they would follow up with me for next steps, but they’re likely going to be seeing me sooner than the typical ten years slated for this test.

Did I retain any of this? Absolutely not. I nodded like a drunk pirate and made some kind of “mm-hmm” sound that should never be considered informed consent or any sense of understanding. There should honestly be a rule: please don’t tell us shit while we’re still high. Email it. Write it down. Tattoo it on my arm even. Because the only thing I remembered clearly was that I still had a blanket on me and someone told me my colon looked great.

Honestly? I’ll take it.

Colorectal cancer is no joke. If you’ve ever had cancer (like me), you’re already in the “might be worth checking out” club. And even if you haven’t, once you hit 45, you officially qualify for the “don’t put this off” list.

According to the American Cancer Society, regular screening can prevent colon cancer or catch it early when it’s easiest to treat. Learn more here.

If you have a personal history of breast cancer, GI issues, or (let’s jut say it) a family history of anyone dropping dead earlier than they should, get your appointment on the books. This isn’t just some checkbox on your health plan. It’s peace of mind and prevention. It’s not dying of something avoidable because you didn’t want to poop a lot for one night.

I’ll deal with the trauma of Crystal Light lemonade. I will NEVER deal with regrets over not catching something early.

Top 5 Things I Wish I’d Known:

1. Stock up on baby wipes. Your butt will thank you. So will your soul.
2. Have two pairs of sweatpants ready. One may not survive.
3. Make a bathroom playlist. Mine was power ballads and “Eye of the Tiger.” Don’t judge me.
4. Chug over ice. Drink cold. Sip fast. Hold your nose if you have to.
5. Your body will betray you. But your sense of humor help you accept it.

Because This Actually Matters

If you’re over 45, talk to your doctor about getting screened for colorectal cancer – even if you feel fine. If you’ve had any kind of cancer before, especially breast, uterine, or ovarian, you may be at higher risk and should screen even earlier actually.

Here are some resources to check out:

American Cancer Society – Colorectal Cancer Screening Guidelines
Colorectal Cancer Alliance – Know Your Risk Quiz
Fight Colorectal Cancer

Get the scope. Survive the prep. Laugh about it later. And remember: aging may be a scam, but staying alive to talk shit about it is a blessing.