A few hours ago, I was sound asleep with a camera up my ass in a room full of strangers.

Not for a typically cruel and inhumane Mr. Beast-like performative quest for commoditized social media views, but because I don’t want to die any sooner than necessary.

It was a colonoscopy, my third in five years.

I’ve known four people that have died from colon cancer, including my Grandma Shea at age 69 in 1980 or ‘81, when I was about six years old. The others were all younger than me and within the past decade. Another acquaintance, also younger than me (I’m a rookie 51 year old), is valiantly battling Stage 4 colon cancer. It’s an insidious disease that’s striking and claiming younger and younger people, often without any symptoms until it’s in later stages. It killed the actor Chadwick Boseman at age 43 in 2020.

My body began warning me to get checked out five years ago, and my oafish, lazy, stubborn, doctor-avoidant brain surrendered to the worry. Lucky me. They removed several bleeding precancerous polyps and ordered me back in a year. Colonoscopy No. 2 was better, so I got a three-year reprieve before this latest screening.

Barely sentient after the anesthesia today in the recovery area, my doctor told me he removed a number of smaller polyps and they’d be biopsied over the next week or so. Which I expected. He told me that I have to get screened again in three years instead of the usual five. Again, no surprise. Colon polyps are my family business, I suppose. Or my inheritance.

My dad, now 82, has been getting colonoscopies for many years and thoroughly enjoys the propofol anesthetic, too (aka the “Milk of Amnesia”). He’s called it the best sleep of his life. My anesthesiologist and I talked about it, including the obligatory Michael Jackson mention. I dunno if it’s the best sleep of my life, particularly under the circumstances, but it ain’t bad. Especially after a night of fitful sleep.

What’s more unpleasant, aside from the wait to learn the biopsy result, is the infamous colonoscopy prep. Because I’m a whiner, worrier, malcontent, and medical misanthrope, I make the prep out to be worse than it is, in my own mind. But it’s still not great. Necessary things rarely are.

Basically, you have to ramp down your eating in the days ahead of the procedure and stick to clear liquids the day before (hint: Wyler’s Italian Ices are great for this). My colonoscopies are always in the morning, so the afternoon prior I have to take four Dulcolax tablets a couple hours ahead of 56 ounces of chilled Gatorade (no red or purple colors because it can interfere with screening results) mixed with a whole-ass bottle of Miralax powder. I went with the “Frost White Glacier Cherry” flavor, which is fairly low-key taste.

What’s tough is you’re supposed to drink 8 ounces of the mix every 10 to 15 minutes. Or you can stretch it 45 minutes between glasses, which is what I did after a while. And I used a glass Pyrex measuring cup to drink from. Precision! In the past I just filled a tall glass and that was way too fucking much Gatorade at once. Bloating is common, and some people can barf from too much liquid. Fortunately, I just get the bloat.

After starting the drink mix around 5 p.m. Wednesday, I finished it around 11 p.m., and in the interval had visited the bathroom several times. The laxative concoction genuinely works. You shit yourself empty, and it’s mostly liquid. Sorta like diarrhea but not exactly. Not warm or thick.

A warning: You know how sometimes you think you just have gas pressure and can just squeeze off a surreptitious fart? Trust me, it’s not just gas while doing colonoscopy prep. Any urge is the real deal – something is coming and you’d best skedaddled to the throne room.

It doesn’t take long before you’re basically pissing out of your butt. It’s eventually a yellowish to clear liquid from the intestinal lining. Not pleasant but we’ve all experienced much worse. It’s not a post-drunken Taco Bell experience. Reducing food intake in the days prior (the doc gives you a list of what to avoid entirely starting a week about) makes the experience less … chunky. Having something on hand like Preparation H Medicated Wipes is crucial to avoid a very tender, inflamed, uh, exit door.

Apologies for the biological vulgarity, but this is our shared human reality. And knowing can save your life. All of us need to do colon cancer screenings as we enter halftime or third quarter of our lives. Cancer does not give a fuck what you think is gross and uncomfortable. And the alternative of getting tested is much worse than butt piss.

My procedure was scheduled for 9 a.m. The waiting room was mostly graying Gen Xers including a guy in a New York Jets t-shirt and another fellow that looked alarmingly like Josh Brolin with a long goatee. After the usual paperwork, assisted by a nice young clerk whose short peroxide blonde hair looked exactly like mid-70s Lou Reed, I was soon taken to the pre-op area to disrobe and answer a bunch of medical history questions. By middle age, you know all the answers. Fortunately, I do not have a lot of issues, so it goes fast. The lady in the curtained-off bed next to me was audibly giving a nightmarish litany of medical problems. So much for HIPAA in close quarters. At least she was cracking jokes about her problems.

The gastrointestinal specialists I see offer full sedation. Some places do not, which I think is both barbaric and insane. The procedure itself is a half hour or less, but it’s still a camera and whatever else slid up your butt in a room full of people. No need to endure that awake. An IV in my hand (not my favorite but a relatively minor pain), and eventually I am wheeled in bed back to the procedure room. It’s dark, cool, and full of peculiar machines all blinking and whirring.

Turned on my left side, festooned with cables and tubes and with my butt hanging out on the gurney and just as the propofol was about to send me to sleep, I managed to utter a final wisecrack: “This is still better than flying Spirit.”

The nurses and my normally stoic doctor all laugh. One final moment of mirth.

Less than an hour later, I was in the recovery area slowly waking up. No memories of anything since the airline joke. Did I dream? Maybe. I think so? But no recollection is forthcoming. Just a general grogginess, like I’d been asleep for hours rather than less than 30 minutes. It takes me about a half hour to shake it off and get reoriented to the conscious world as I dress and am led off to my ride (and then to Arby’s, which is obviously the wisest, healthiest choice any American can make).

Some of you know I’m a Jimmy Buffett fan (it’s mandatory for middle-aged white dudes, no?) and even interviewed him in 2020. I came to Buffett’s music in my early forties when the grind of end-stage capitalism’s soul-crushing corporate cubicle life finally triggered my understanding of why he sang about tropical escapism. His concerts always were an enormous party filled with booze, weed smoke, hula skirts, dude’s in coconut bras, beach balls, and general revelry and mayhem. A number of hardcore loyal fans would stencil a number in black marker on their forearms to show how many Buffett concerts they’ve attended, with several sporting triple digits on their tan hairy limbs. Buffett himself once had “ALL” stenciled on his arm. I never got the chance to do the arm stencil. My number would have been five. I played his music while showering before today’s screening.

When I go in for my fourth colonoscopy in 2028, I will have a big black “4” stenciled on my forearm. And I will maintain this tradition from then on. This form of butt stuff isn’t as fun as a Buffett show, but ultimately both things have helped me stay alive.

Growing older is filled with indignities, annoyances, frustrations, and fears as our bodies begin to wear out. Colonoscopies, unless you’re a special type of masochistic freak – and I say that laudatory – are not especially enjoyable but they are a necessity. You’ve got to change your car’s oil to keep it running, and you’ve got to check your ass to keep yourself alive. And for all my dramatic gibberish, it’s really not that bad. Those undergoing radiation and chemo for colon cancer will tell you that. I wish my grandma had gotten screened because I really have only a few memories of her alive.

Get screened. They recommend doing it by age 45 now, down from age 50. If you’re younger than 45 and believe you have reason to worry about colon issues, advocate for yourself with your medical providers and get it done. Waiting may be too late. It could have been for me.

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