October 16, 2015 – Friday

46 degrees/sunny/windy

Minneapolis, MN

With forty-five minutes of layover time remaining until my next flight from Minneapolis to Atlanta, I figured I might as well begin writing.

I have a good excuse for being delinquent. These past two days haven’t exactly been normal ones. Actually, my excitement began on Wednesday at exactly 4:12 PM.

As mentioned earlier, I had a colonoscopy scheduled for Thursday morning. Before going any further, the procedure went well with no unpleasant surprises. As the old adage goes, a healthy colon is a happy colon and mine is downright gleeful. 

But it’s the preparation to the procedure that made my life miserable. The culprit; magnesium citrate.

I followed the day-before instructions to the letter. The magnesium citrate was chilled and as the clock struck two on Wednesday afternoon, I uncapped the first bottle, poured it into a glass, then attempted to chug as much as possible in one breath.

 I’m told the flavor was lemon lime and indeed, there was a fruity hint of such a thing. It was bubbly, yet, effervescent, but oh, the aftertaste. The flavor left in my mouth was reminiscent of kerosene and road kill.

Oops, time to board the plane

Page two

Atlanta, Georgia

I was  mentally and physically prepared for the aftermath of chugging magnesium citrate. The Kindle e-reader was placed on the vanity, well within reach of the bathroom stool. Knowing most the afternoon would be spent in the reading room, I relaxed in my recliner, ready to spring at a moment’s notice.

Five minutes went by, ten, then twenty. Nothing. I screwed up my courage and went out to work in the shop. Still nothing. An hour went by, almost two.

The second bottle was to be consumed at 4 PM. It was 3:55. What to do? Wasn’t something supposed to happen? Where were the cramps, the fireworks, the unpleasantness that everyone talks about? What would happen if I was immune to the formula? I was supposed to enter Friday morning’s colonoscopy with immaculate insides. I panicked. 

Perhaps two bottles wouldn’t be enough. If that was the case, I wanted Sargie to purchase another one or two before leaving work. The number to the doctor’s office was printed on the instructions. Maybe I should call.

I dialed. PLEASE, let someone still be in the doctor’s office.

Ring… ring…

“Dr. Smith’s office. May I help you?”

I hesititated, but I’d gone too far to hang up.

“May I speak to a nurse please?”

One picked up the phone within seconds. Good! I was in luck. I identified myself and began:

“This may be a dumb question, but ….”  I  said that I had a morning colonoscopy scheduled for Thursday and that I was pretty sure that magnesium citrate had no affect on my body. I even added that I must have the bowels of iron and a colon of steel. There was no laughter on her part.

“So what’s your question?” asked the nurse, obviously irritated and eager to go home.

A tough nurse, old fashioned, with no sense of humor. She instantly reminded me of my childhood medical practitioner, Dr. Shrodenbach, a replica of Jaba the Hutt, who, I swear, used square needles with barbs attached.

I hesitated… “well, actually, I am due to take the second bottle of magnesium citrate in three minutes. Should I have my wife pick up a third or fourth bottle, ah… you know, just in case the second doesn’t work?”

It’s been a long time since I’ve heard someone blow their adenoids out their nose in an attempt to keep from laughing. She finally ceased trying and let loose with a belly laugh that could be felt through the phone lines.

Every time she attempted to talk, she started laughing and just when I thought she might be regaining her composure, begin again.  My colon and I were beginning to lose our self esteem.

“Oh dear," she said, "Everyone reacts differently. Don’t worry, two bottles will be enough, I promise,” then resumed laughing.

I chuckled with her, thanked her, then hung up the phone, trying to feel good that I’d made someone’s day a bit brighter.

I actually said a silent prayer that the second bottle of liquid laxative would work. 

Mama has always said to be careful what I wish for, that it might come true.

I chugged the cherry flavored magnesium citrate and went back to the shop. I wasn’t going to waste my afternoon sitting around waiting for the promised fireworks show to begin.

It was 4:10 when I felt the first rumble. 4:11 saw me begin to panic as I walked to the house. 4:12 brought a Major League Baseball slide into the reading room. My prayers had been answered in spades.

I’ll skip the details, but I’m pretty sure that one of the major ingredients in magnesium citrate is battery acid. I began to covet the bag balm that Sargie uses on her hands along with Grady’s Baby Magic.

Bedtime came and went with the last dash occurring at 4 AM. It was then I began to worry that the effects of the magnesium citrate wouldn’t be finished before my scheduled procedure. 

The rest of the story is pretty boring. Sargie drove me to the ambulatory care unit of the hospital. We had a good visit with Peggy, the nice nurse, and cowered in feigned fear at one that wasn’t nearly as pleasant. I swear she had a gleeful look as she shoved an IV needle into a “horrible vein,” in the back of my hand.

The two young nurses in the procedure room were perky and fun and be bopped around my gurney listening to rock music. The young doctor was almost as spunky.  Running a few minutes late, I did my best Dick Clark, American Bandstand introduction as he walked into the room. I remember calling all three The Colonoscopy Kids as a nurse injected the anesthetic, saying, "night night!". 

That was the last thing I remember. It was a full hour before I awakened back in the recovery area, Sargie at my side, Nice Nurse Peggy asking if I wanted something to eat and drink.

The rest of Thursday was spent napping and messing around the house. I didn’t feel bad, I just felt lazy and grateful. Very grateful. Extremely grateful. Had I not gotten hold of Nurse Jaba on Wednesday, I might have very well swallowed a third bottle of magnesium citrate.

Sargie and I packed our bags at the same time before we went to bed Thursday night. She’s spending this weekend at one of her sister’s camps in celebration of sister, Nancy’s, 60^th birthday. All five Milligan sisters (NO MEN ALLOWED!) are gathering in a girl-only party setting. Would I ever like to be a fly on the wall. On second thought, no I wouldn’t. There are some things boys don’t need to know.

Sargie just sent me these pictures:

Someone's cheating. I don't count sixty candles on that cake!

Page three

My introduction to the Atlanta Airport didn’t go well earlier this afternoon. I was traveling from Concourse A to B and must have taken a wrong turn, ending up beyond TSA security on the other side of the International Baggage area.  I wandered around long enough to realize I’d have to go back through security, but what was even worse, I was hopelessly lost.

An airport security policeman came wandering along and I asked if he might call Airport Services and send someone to lead me to the promised gate. The young man appeared a few minutes later and almost insisted I ride in a motorized cart. I told him there wasn’t a thing wrong with my legs and if he would kindly lead the way, I’d be happy to follow him to Gate 34 B.  

Other than meander down the hall to purchase a Dunkin’ Donut, that’s where I’ve been for the past three hours… and will remain for the next three. I leave Atlanta tonight at 8:45 and am supposed to arrive in Portland, Maine, at 11:30. Andy is supposed to meet me and we’ll travel to Matt and Jessica’s in New Hampshire. All the Pennington boys, wives, and grandbabies, are meeting Saturday afternoon for the annual Grandpa Birthday Party.

I began the Grandpa P birthday party three years ago. It’s where all the grandbabies gather at once for their presents, cake, ice cream, streamers, noise makers, hats, and anything else I can think of to have a fun-filled afternoon. It’s fun and hey, I’m a grandpa. When it’s all over and they are saturated with sugar, they get to go home with their mommies and daddies. I love it.

Two and a half hours remain before I board the plane for the final leg of my journey. I’m tired. I’m really really tired and I don’t want to get into an airport conversation with fellow travelers. Yooper Brother Mark picked me up at 3:45 this morning and took me to the airport in Iron Mountain and it's been a long day since. There's another guy sitting across from me who keeps trying to strike up a conversation. It's too much effort to talk and listen. I just had a conversation with one fellow who claims he knows several stars including Howie Mandel and Michael Douglas.

He’s got nothing on me. Heck, I know the nurse’s equivalent of Jaba the Hutt. 

With that being said, it’s time to get this uploaded then find something to eat. After all, a man’s work is never done; even in Atlanta, Georgia.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road…