Today I had my first colonscopy. There's much I like about being fifty, but having a colonscopy is right up there with wrinkles, menopause, and the way men look right past you now.

They found one tiny (2mm) polyp and biopsied it. I remember a millimeter being a teeny-tiny speck of a measurement. I have to wonder why they didn't just take the whole darn thing as I can't imagine how you take only a piece of something so small.

The doc also said (three times) that I did a great job of getting clean. Getting clean, for those of you who are not intiated, involves not eating all day, taking four (yes 4!) laxatives, and drinking 64 ounces of Gatorade mixed with Miralax (a 'stool softener'). Quite possible the most miserable experience I've had since...well, ever.

When my husband came to pick me up at the Gastro center, I told him, "I am NEVER doing that again." I mean that completely, so science better step up and find a better way to look for colon cancer. Speaking of which, there has NEVER been a case of colon cancer in my family, so henceforth I am taking my chances. I really am never doing that again.

What does this have to do with my writing?

Absolutely nothing.

And everything. Because all of us writers get our material from our own experiences. No one really 'makes it up."

The doctor who looks up people's butts all day, the nurse with her heavy makeup and hard manner, the anesthesiologist who teased me about being allergic to avacados, the elederly man in the waiting room who kept complaining about 'kids with guns,' and the lovely African American receptionist with the sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cat eye glasses. All of these people will very likely turn up in one of my stories, along with the maddening irritation I felt last night when my husband said, "It's almost over!" and promptly went to bed completely missing out on my all night bathroom relay and the quaking vulnerability I felt lying on a guerney in the staging area wearing paper underwear with a convenient slit in the back, a gown with no buttons, an IV in the back of my hand and a blood pressure cuff on my arm as people wandered right passed me and talked about their plans for the holiday weekend and who did or did not make a change to the schedule that put Caitlyn in prep instead of recovery.

And now, I'm home. Trapped here as the doctor said no driving and no alcohol. (And I wondered if the no alcohol directive was only becuase I was totally honest when he asked about my drinking and told him I have a drink almost every day, which I do. Water, wine, and tea being the only beverages I regularly consume.)

The dogs are happy to have me. My teenage daughter grunted at the sight of me. I can eat anything I want. And I don't ever, ever, ever have to drink a sip of Gatorade again.

So I'm in a better place because today I had my very last colonscopy.