It’s Election Day, and I wake early, filled with anxiety, excitement and two quarts of lime jello. Not from doing “shots” the night before, but because today is also my first colonoscopy. What will happen today? Will it be historic? Will it mean the beginning of change in America? Will they find “undecided” polyps?
Trudging past the laundry room in my bathrobe, my nose warns me that our psycho kitty has eschewed the litter box again. No change there. Is it a sign?
Upstairs, I can smell the coffee my husband has just brewed, but today all I want is tea. Tea, tea, tea. No, make that only “tea”. The doctor’s instructions have limited me to one cup and I intend to enjoy every warm, comforting sip. I want to forget yesterday’s preparatory “drink” – complete with “flavor packs”. Flavor. Such an ambiguous word. If you say it enough times, it even starts to sound evil. But I digress. I need my tea.
I plop down with the paper and scan the headlines. Polls, polls, and more polls. Still no clear sign of change. How about the Obituaries? Anybody die at the proctologist’s yesterday? No. But perhaps this is not a widely reported genre.
Maybe I should call my superstitious Bruin friend. She is confident in her ability to read signs: when we miss the kickoff at the Rosebowl and the Bruins score first, she knows that next time we are late (pretty much every time), the Bruins will win. Unless we lose, and then god help us if we miss the kickoff next time. Maybe I won’t call. Last time she was this nervous, she caught the flu, stepped on a rusty nail, and poked her eye out with a pointy stick. I’ll spare her the hospital bills.
Finally, the timer goes off and my tea is ready. Carefully rationed, eight ounces of liquid comfort steam up into my sleepy face. I sip it slowly, knowing that it is the last thing I’m allowed to swallow for the next six hours. I need to keep my girlish figure for my very special date with Joe The Colonoscopist.
I finish the paper. Both of them: LA and NY Times, but nowhere can I find any comforting predictions. Nobody wants to jinx it by being over-confident. We are all so scared. Under the table, in the only way she knows how to show affection, my cat sinks her teeth into my leg. Must be time to get going. I lift my empty mug from the table, and there it is at last: A SIGN. A water-mark ring. In the shape of a “C”. CHANGE it is. But, wait a minute, could it be “C” for “Country First”?? Or “C” for “colonoscopy”???!!
Two quarts of lime jello can cloud your perspective.