I'm hungry! Hide your shoes!

Discreet, isn't it? (And, yes, that's my green bathrobe being rocked. I may be in it all day.)

I haven't written because I've been in a state of hunger-based confusion for three days.

After scheduling the procedure and canceling it four times, barring any unforeseen states of emergency or surprise blizzards in the next 24 hours, I will be reporting to the hospital at 9:30am tomorrow to have a colonoscopy. And, hopefully, there will be live streaming.

Or not. (Actually, as much as I'd like to give you the play-by-play, I have no intention of killing my post-op buzz by breaking out the laptop. A little video might be fun though...)

Considering how impaired I've been these past few days from trying to get a head start on the prep, I can't make any promises. It all started with my doing too much research. See, I love researching. And I have a tendency, when facing unfamiliar topics/scenarios/humans to try to familiarize myself even slightly (usually obsessively) with the subject of which I am ignorant. When I learned that research is part of the work of being a writer, I cried rainbow-colored tears of Google joy. This curiosity has mostly served me in my life but all research and no living can can make Lola a crazy girl. (Early on in my mom's illness, Dan suggested that I give myself a time limit on this front.) But I would also also argue that we often go a little too blindly through the world, particularly when led by medical professionals, and that a baseline understanding of what's going on should be acquired before agreeing to take a pill with 76,000 side effects.

Or (and especially) when having a camera snaked up your ass.

So, I Googled.

I didn't delve into the frightening land of what could go wrong (though, generally my brain cuddles and dwells under the subheading of Risks and Complications), but instead focused on getting myself, my colon (MEMOIR TITLE ALERT: My Self, My Colon) prepared. Basically, instead of opting to simply abstain from eating one day before the procedure as the literature my doc's office sent suggested I do, I decided to start avoiding fiber a few days ago and thought I'd spend the last two before the colonoscopy on a liquid diet. What I soon realized was that my regular diet consists of 99% fiber (1% coffee) so really what I was attempting to do was not eat for four days.

While excitedly pondering how this would affect the number on the scale, I forgot to note that failing to eat turns me into a grouchy, whiny child before it freezes me into a stammering, staring pile on the couch in a perpetual state of forgetting what I was going to say, before revealing a psycho who knows exactly how she would catch, skin and roast the neighbor's cat, "you know, if ever it got to that." (I get a little Black Swanny is all I'm saying.)

The good news is: I failed.

But in the stupidest way possible. My research started on Thursday so after nuts and berries for breakfast and salad for lunch (a fiber-fest if ever there was!), I committed to a no-fiber diet and handled the rest of the day pretty well. I got through Friday with eggs for breakfast, yogurt, a bit of roasted chicken (bleh), sardines (surprisingly not bleh), and then it was 8am and what the hell else was I going to eat? (Some of what I read suggested reaching for white rice and pasta but my relationships with these foods? Well, It's complicated.) So I didn't eat anything else and then, because all logical thinking is lost when I'm hungry (and thus the knowledge that burning calories would only make me hungrier was absent), I went to the gym. There I dizzily huffed through an hour on the elliptical machine, soaking in sweat and saliva while watching Ina Garten make Jeffrey (that stiff fucker) a lobster potpie. (That potpie will haunt my dreams until I have it and I don't even really like lobster.) I made it all the way to 4 o'clock when I met Dan at the movies (with the rest of our 70-year-old peers) and decided that the hot tea I had brought to replace movie munchies would be best enjoyed with a box of Milk Duds. No, Milk Duds don't have any fiber in them. But with the goal being to get a head start on the emptying of my colon, I couldn't help but feel that swallowing down little globs of half-chewed caramel was counterproductive. Having ruined the day of healthy eating with the Duds though, I naturally had to follow the movie up with dinner of Thai food. As I ate the Pad See Ew (do yourself a favah and get this some time) and threw back the sweet, wide noodles (which, as we've already discussed, complicate things no matter what...but contain no fiber!), I attempted to avoid the veggies which, of course, felt really stupid and contradictory to everything I know about nutrition.

Saturday was supposed to be all liquid so between 7:30 and 3pm all I ate were two whey protein and milk smoothies. Things start to get fuzzy after this. I tried to satisfy my hunger with a cup of homemade chicken broth that Dan (when he came out from hiding under the bed) cooked up using the carcass from a chicken I had roasted a few days ago, but I resented that it didn't taste like cupcakes and was also not nearly as filling. Still hungry as we started into a Sons of Anarchy DVD binge (a solid show), I began fantasizing about the foods I would eat if I could. As I told Dan (during the many times we had to stop and rewind the show because I wasn't paying attention or couldn't process quickly enough due to starvation-induced dimwittedness), I thought my diet before this was pretty limited in that I try to avoid gluten, cheese, and hormone-pumped or grain/corn-fed animal products, but it's all relative. I would do anything (and I was much, much more specific than this) for an apple, I told him. The fantasy meal I decided on was bruschetta with grilled, olive-oil brushed baguette rounds and sweet summer tomatoes, a Leinenhugel's Sunset Wheat beer in a cold glass with an orange wheel, and then a soft-serve vanilla ice cream on a wafer cone. This meal would destroy my stomach but will be worth it...six months from now when such a meal can be enjoyed. (I. Want. Summer.)

As day became night, I finally said to Dan, "We have to shut off the windows and I need to eat."

("Shut off the windows" is apparently hungry-speak for close the blinds.)

Two homemade meatballs smothered in tomato sauce later (low-fiber), I was stuffed.

For five minutes.

Then I was starving again.

And so I broke my liquid fast yet again with my go-to (low fiber!) treat of a few tablespoons of peanut butter sprinkled (liberally) with chocolate chips eaten in a bowl cereal-style. (This is best enjoyed with a glass of red wine which I had to indulge in because certainly when they speak of not ingesting red, orange or purple beverages, they don't mean wine.)

Today, though, I can't break. Prior to this, the effort was for extra credit in terms of colon cleanliness. Today, I have been instructed to not eat anything other than clear broths and juices. I was allowed eggs early this morning and went for it because, fuck, this is going to be hard, but the tantrums have already started. Dan just looked in on me and I was punching the couch cushions because I accidentally erased a big portion of this and didn't fucking feel like fucking rewriting this fucking shit. Then he disappeared into the bathroom.

The worst part of all of this is that I no longer think I will be a good Survivor contestant.

I don't know if we've talked about this here, but being on Survivor is a dream of mine and I am always trying to prepare myself for the obstacles I know will be posed when I am cast on the show (after I decide I can handle wearing a bathing suit on television and audition). This past December, when I locked myself out of my apartment and out of my running car on a 13-degree day, I asked myself what I would do during the cold nights on Survivor and started pulling out the Jane Fonda workout moves to keep warm. Fortunately, AAA came before it was time for pelvic lifts. But, I am now recognizing that the hunger may be too much for me. I have new insight into why all the the women on Survivor go crazy so quickly and think the only logical solution is to steal their tribemates' shoes. I'm seeing double and it's only been six hours. Add coldness to this scenario and there would be some screeching unpleasantness, which is probably why Dan didn't say anything about my turning the thermostat up a couple degrees higher than normal this morning.

And also why he's not making eye contact with me.

Wait, is he getting ready for the gym? He is! He's going to the gym! He's just gonna leave me like this? What if I hurt myself? What if I break? What if I'm too weak to heat the chicken broth? What kind of husband leaves his wife in this state?

One who knows when his wife's got the crazy in her eyes.

Fucker.

So, my intention is to update as the day goes on but I may get too dizzy to type.

I also may get too bitchy to blog. You guys don't need to see that.

Wish me luck.

Love,
Not Fucking Ghandi