Unsung Hero of the Month - DECEMBER 2009

Unsung Hero of the Month - December

This month’s “Unsung Hero” title goes to a couple recommended to me by Emily Tedrow: Meet Scot and RyAnne Noss.

Scot is a “local boy,” born and raised in Oregon’s mid-Willamette Valley. I recall hearing of his integrity and solid character when he was still in his teens. As the saying goes, his reputation “went before him.” After graduating from high school, Scot volunteered with Youth With a Mission (YWAM) for one year before joining the U.S. Army. That alone speaks volumes for the kind of man Scot Noss is.

I could tell his story here, but words literally fail me and it wouldn’t do it, or him, justice. A recent PBS special on Scot and RyAnne says it all. Prepare to be undone by the sacrifices they have made for you and I, and for each other.

Scot and RyAnne, I salute you both. Directly, and indirectly, your lives inspire and greatly affect us. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Hulda, Elisabetta and Babe: The Senior Sisterhood

Hulda, Elisabetta and Babe: The Senior Sisterhood

(Geezer Hood, Vortexia) – After a miraculous medical recovery, Grandma Babe is again enjoying the climes of independent living at her senior apartment complex. On her first day back to the group dining room her fellow residents actually applauded her return. Two of them in particular -- Hulda and Elisabetta – are women I secretly wish were my BFF’s.

Hulda, as her name implies, is a sturdy woman of Nordic or Germanic descent with a heart of gold. She limps along behind her walker with a smile soaked in sunshine, encouraging everyone she sees. She is the type of person you want to tuck in your purse and take home, like a puppy, for keeps.

“Oh, Babe!” she exclaimed, welcoming Grandma back into the fold. She leaned over her walker, and held Babe’s hand in hers. “We sure missed you around here. It’s so good to have you back again!”

Elisabetta, a gregarious Italian-American, exudes old-world charm and new-world vitality. Fairly tall for being in her 90’s, with perfect posture, olive skin, white hair, and a remarkable flair for fashion, she is at once both elegant and down-to-earth.

Whenever she greets Grandma, she cups her face in her hands and croons, “Ciao, Bella!”

True to her heritage, Elisabetta uses her hands to accentuate every sentence. One day, I noticed she stroked Grandma’s face about ten or fifteen times in the course of a five-minute conversation. Melting as I watched her, all I could think was, “Please, Elisabetta, speak Italian to me and stroke my face.” Oh, to be mothered again!

Of course, the male residents, not as verbose as the women, welcomed Babe back with a wink, a light slap on the back, or a clever pun meant to make her laugh. Since Grandma is still a tomboy at heart, they probably consider her “one of the guys” – something her female counterparts may, or may not, envy. I envy the camaraderie Babe has at her fingertips each day. She simply opens her door when she wants some social interaction and voila, there it is. It’s reassuring for her, and for us, to know she’s never alone.

Don’t get me wrong; senior living facilities aren’t perfect, though they would definitely make for an Emmy-winning sit-com. The same petty dramas exist there as in any living arrangement involving more than one person. There are the token grumps, hermits, and bellyachers. Gossips abound, and every once in awhile tempers flare. (Yes, elderly men are still capable of fist fights; apparently even miniscule levels of testosterone are deadly). One thing is certain, however; there’s always something happening at Babe’s place. Indeed, take age out of the equation and visiting a senior home feels just like walking into a high school. You can feel the buzz.

Despite the standard flaws in human nature present in senior communal living, it’s encouraging to see that the drive to love, comfort, protect, and share someone else’s burden, is equally tenacious. And realizing that sisterhood among women continues into old age is, well, one of the few comforting revelations I cling to as I’m dragged, kicking and screaming, down my own path of decrepitude.

Unsung Hero of the Month - November

Unsung Hero of the Month

November’s unsung hero is Kathy Huston of Lebanon, Oregon. This humble, indefatigable woman is part of the reason Grandma Babe (my 92-year-old mother-in-law) is still alive.

Several weeks ago, Grandma was completely incapacitated with a mysterious intestinal bug. After a week of taking care of her, followed by a few days in the hospital and a few days in rehab, she was finally able to return to her apartment at a nearby senior-living facility. But almost immediately, she came down with a bladder infection. By then, she was so weak and mentally undone, she wouldn’t/couldn’t take her meds and wouldn’t/couldn’t get out of bed. She needed help with absolutely everything.

Exhausted, and at our wits’ end, my husband and I wondered what we could do to avoid having to transfer our normally vibrant grandmother into assisted living. Several different temporary nursing/caretaking services were cost prohibitive, and therefore, out of the question.

Then, I remembered Kathy telling me she loved visiting old people. When I asked her if she could check in on Grandma twice a day, early morning and late evening, for a week, she said “yes” without skipping a beat. Not only did Kathy faithfully do this for us, but she went above and beyond our needs by befriending Grandma, spending extra time with her. What an incredible difference it made for us, to be able to help Grandma during the day knowing Kathy was there every morning and night. And what a difference it made to Grandma, knowing there was an angel coming to see her every day and lift her spirits.

Through it all, I discovered that, in her private life, Kathy not only visits the elderly on a regular basis, but she volunteers in a score of other areas of the public sector also. I’ve known Kathy for years, and didn’t know this. Why? Because Kathy Huston is the real deal when it comes to having a servant’s heart; she loves in secret.

As if Kathy’s giving character were not enough to commend, she is by nature one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known, and I use the adjective “sweet” in the most complimentary, exemplary way possible.

So, here’s to you Kathy. May you be blessed ten-fold for the blessing you’ve been to me!

The Funambulist and Her Band of Buffoons

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The Funambulist and Her Band of Buffoons

(Les Crunches, Vortexia) -- Kim, the vivacious Group Power instructor at the gym I belong to, is a saucy little spitfire whose irrepressible personality makes working out not only bearable, but actually fun. That this 30-something, single mother of four is astonishingly fit was incentive enough for me to take her class. Who in their right mind wouldn’t drag themselves out of bed every morning in the hope of attaining a body like hers? (Madness, I know, but who says women are sane when it comes to their body image?)

Of course, it would be easy to envy this effusive dynamo, this impulsive, beautiful woman with her dazzling smile and infectious laugh, this human pretzel who can contort her body into any shape, lift as much weight as a man, do hand stands with one arm and dance like a female Michael Jackson. Next to her I feel like a centenarian on Prozac. But Kim is also as playful, transparent and vulnerable as a ten-year old; so not loving her is simply not an option.

Another element at play in this scenario is small-town life. Here, if everyone doesn’t know everyone, we at least know of someone who does. In other words, when it comes to relationships, we hit the ground running, and by necessity, we are our own entertainment. Add to this picture the group of diverse women taking Kim’s class – savvy young girls, gossip-hungry moms, mid-life fugitives, renegade retirees – and you see why my group power classes are never, ever, ever, dull.

During our workout the other day, for example, Kim announced that her current boyfriend, and several of his friends, had dressed as Ghostbusters for Halloween, posting their pictures on Facebook.

“So, you know I don’t tell nasty jokes, right?” she asked, the droll tone of her voice a sure sign we were in for another one of her legendary stories.

Straining to lift our weights in time to the music, we all nodded in agreement. It was true; we had never heard her tell an off-color joke. Almost never. Not really off-color.

“Well, I made a comment on his Facebook page,” she continued, “telling him I’d seen an apparition in my bedroom and I that I was going to call and have them come over to take care of it. It was a joke.”

She paused for effect, and then indignantly blurted, “He deleted my comment because he said it was too racy! Can you believe that?”

“I must be dense,” I muttered, laboring through my lunges. “I don’t get how he thought that was ‘racy.’”

“Yeah,” a chorus of female voices agreed. “He’s the one with a dirty mind. Ach, men! They…”

Phillip, the lone male in our class, blushed. We bantered back-and-forth for a minute, wickedly relishing poor Phillip’s discomfort.

Kim picked up two fifteen-pound weights, flexing her perfectly toned biceps. “Well, thank you!” she chirped. “It was a totally innocent comment. You know, his response is just another sign that we aren’t very compatible. I broke up with him once before and he talked me into getting back with him. Now I’ll have to break up with him all over again.”

Was she kidding?

After we finished our reps, Terry, a straight-talking former social worker, set her weights down with a sigh. “If you’re going to break up with your boyfriend, Kim,” she said, her expression completely deadpan, “just text him back and tell him it wasn’t an apparition after all, so you won’t need his help.”

Group buffoonery; the best sport of all…and, oh, so therapeutic. Just don’t be looking for me to bare my soul at the gym anytime soon.

UNSUNG HERO OF THE MONTH

Sandra Byrd

My October Unsung Hero is dear friend and best-selling author Sandra Byrd of Seattle, Washington. Three dozen of her books have been published, including the Secret Sisters and Friends for a Season series; an amazing accomplishment.

Her adult fiction novel, Let Them Eat Cake, was a Christy Award finalist. The third book in that series, following Bon Appétit, is the newly released Pièce de Résistance.

Sandra rates as a hero because of her integrity, determination and perseverance in the publishing industry, her devotion to God and her family, and her grace, compassion and generosity as a human being. When I first met Sandra at a writer’s conference in Colorado, she befriended me – a virtual nobody – and voluntarily took me under her writer’s wing. It was her selfless encouragement and inspiration that provided me with the confidence necessary to pursue my own dream of being a published author. I highly recommend you visit Sandra at www.sandrabyrd.com and check out her books while you’re at it. Sandra, this one’s for you!

A "Meet the Parents" Moment

A "Meet the Parents" Moment

(Poetic Justice, Vortexia) – Remember my husband’s run-in with the long arm of the law? (See August 6). Well, this month he had another run-in; this time with our future son-in-law. It was a scene right out of “Meet the Parents.”

Dave, as you’ll recall, is an intrepid driver, the guy you want behind the wheel in an emergency. He is also extremely proud of his driving record, having never been in an accident. That is, he’s never been in an accident in public. Here at home it’s another story.

Case in point: Years ago, I was in the house cooking when suddenly I was startled by a loud crash coming from our covered wood shed. I ran to the window to see the front end of our ’68 Chevy pickup sticking out the other end of the building and Dave standing nearby half-dazed. He told me he had started the truck and then been surprised by a yellow jacket in the cab (he’s allergic to their sting). As he bailed out of the rig, he somehow pressed on the accelerator. Defending his male ego, he blustered that anyone would have done the same thing. I mean, who in their right mind would turn off the ignition before jumping from a moving truck when a killer bee is poised to strike?

My own vehicular stupidities are not so easily rationalized away. Like the time I rushed out at night to go to a meeting and didn’t think to look in my rear-view mirror before backing up. Our pastor, who had come to visit us, had parked his brand new Honda right behind our car. I put the car in reverse, gunned the engine and T-boned our pastor’s car, doing hundreds of dollars of damage to it. It took me a good ten minutes to work up the courage to go back into the house and break the news to him. That was a difficult one to live down.

But I digress. Back to Dave.

It is vital to this story to inform you, at this juncture, that Big Time Dave is a perfectionist; someone who has all their ducks in a row. He takes his sweet time with everything and is circumspect in all he does. He is an engineer after all; his genes scream order, regimentation, functionality. For example, he’s the self-appointed family valet parking attendant. As such, he is very particular about where all the cars in our circular driveway are parked (for reasons only he understands; we simply indulge his professorial whimsies). And having never forgotten my run-in with our pastor’s Honda, he has long made it his duty to remind us all of the dangers of parking our cars in spots where someone might forget to look when backing up. Sensible enough, eh?

Well, the other night – while our future son-in-law Alex was here visiting our daughter -- my husband and I hopped into our car to go to town. Dave put the car in reverse, pressed hard on the accelerator, and backed up without looking. Bam! From the sound of the impact, you would have thought we’d totaled both our car and Alex’s. When Alex came out of the house, Dave – still in shock – sputtered some inanities about how he had warned everyone about the dangers of parking in certain areas of the driveway, how he knew this would happen some day, etc., etc.

Vindictive creature that I am, I took great delight in rubbing it in. “There’s no one to blame but yourself, Dave,” I snarked. “You should have looked in the rear-view mirror before backing up.”

Nearly a dozen passionate protestations later, he finally, albeit grudgingly and with caveats, admitted he alone was responsible for the collision. Miraculously, neither car suffered damage. Alex had forgotten to put his car in park, so when we backed into it, it actually rolled out of the driveway, over a railroad tie, and hit a post holding up our grape arbor. Fortunately, the post was rotten and when his car hit it, it gave way, absorbing the impact.

Poor Alex. Had this been the first visit to our home, he may – like Ben Stiller – have been tempted to run from the Neumann family as fast, and as far away, as he could. I wouldn’t have blamed him. After all, having your future father-in-law rant at you about where you parked your car in the driveway and worse, transferring blame for the accident to you, would terrify the most gallant suitor. But Alex is made of stronger stuff than that, and Dave – despite his eccentricities – is impossible not to like. His redeeming quality, he readily admits, is a great sense of humor. He’s a good man, a great father, and a hoot to boot. As he is wont to remind us when episodes like this arise, rather than judge him on his one – or two – minor character flaws, we should judge the “whole package.”

So hang in there Alex. You’re not only gaining a wife, but a whole package father-in-law as well. Isn’t that great? Oh, and don’t forget where to park your car next time you come over.

Angel and Demon: A Tale of Two Kitties

Angel and Demon: A Tale of Two Kitties

(LaPurr, Vortexia) – Being country folk, we’ve always had cats. Stella, one of our more recent ones, disappeared without a trace a year ago when, in a jealous rage, she boycotted our selection of a companion for her. She simply stalked off and never returned.

Important Stella history: The runt of the litter, she almost died when she was a kitten. Unfortunately, our heroic efforts to save Stella resulted in her suffering brain damage which manifested in a variety of psychoses, not the least of which was body dysmorphic disorder. Our pint-sized jet-black Stella seriously thought she was a panther. She stalked -- and killed -- snakes, rats and other animals larger than herself; animals a dog would run from. The offal she regularly deposited on our front porch was disgusting in the extreme. More than once, she climbed a100-foot-tall fir tree behind our house, refusing to come down for days. Indeed, she was so deranged, we actually breathed a collective sigh of relief when she disappeared.

Stella’s successor, Stu (the companion she loathed) is by far the best feline ever to grace our humble estate. He is handsome, clever, playful, winsome and lovable. In short, he is everything Stella was not. The only thing Stella and Stu shared in common – a cardinal quality any Neumann cat must have -- is that they were good mousers.

Which brings me to the present.

We began to worry when Stu suddenly no longer looked his dapper self. He began to roam at night. He acted distant. His tail looked creepy; as though he had stuck it in a light socket.

“Not to worry,” the vet assured us. “We call it ‘stud-tail.’ Time to get him neutered.”

Since ‘catting around’ is a cat’s unpardonable sin, and worse, his male drive was interfering with his ability to mouse properly, we made the dreaded appointment. Several days before Stu went under the knife, however, a black cat reappeared, spectre-like, on the edge of our field.

“It couldn’t be Stella,” we reasoned. But when she saw Stu she arched her back. When I reached for her, she hissed, bared her teeth at me, and stormed off into the woods as though she was the Queen of Sheba. It was Stella alright. A check with some neighbors revealed that Stella sightings have been occurring over the last few months at odd times, always ending with her running off before she can be repatriated.

So, Stu lost his manhood and is back home now. At least most of Stu is back (lol). Admittedly, there is some trepidation over the possibility that he could, like Stella, develop some post-surgery body image issues. He could turn into Garfield -- lazy, insolent, narcissistic – which, of course, would not do. An even bigger fear is that Stella will return, sense the change in her adversary and force Stu into being her personal eunuch.

Oh, the vagaries of cats!

Meanwhile, we watch and wait, on the lookout for a pair of green panther eyes shining at us wickedly from the woods at night. And we keep Stu close to home. Very close.

Grandma Update: She's Wearing Lipstick

Grandma Update: She’s Wearing Lipstick

(Golden Years, Vortexia) -- Grandma has made an extraordinary transformation. She’s wearing lipstick. At 92 years of age, it’s more than remarkable. It’s a sign.

With her beautiful Italian coloring, Tuscan blue eyes and white hair, grandma used to sport a splash of lipstick and on special occasions some subtle eye-shadow. She always dressed impeccably. But, when she turned 90 she stopped wearing makeup.

You see, my mother-in-law is an amazing woman, but her up-beat personality and zest for life weren’t enough to sustain her through trials the last two years have wrought. Among other things, she: 1) survived a ruptured gall bladder, 2) lost her husband, first to dementia and then to kidney failure, and 3) suffered a stroke which left her without any peripheral vision.

Not long ago my observant daughter asked her grandmother why she no longer wore make up.

“I’m too old,” explained Grandma with a shrug. “I guess I just don’t care anymore.”

Fellow Vortexians may recall that about a month ago Grandma moved into her own apartment in a nearby independent living facility. We all cried saying good-night to her the first night she stayed there. In all her life, she had never lived alone. Not that living in the senior facility is living alone, but….

It didn’t take long for her to make the adjustment and every time we see her or call her she looks and sounds…happy. Really happy. She actually has a bounce to her step again. Residents at the facility gravitate to her and she has her old charm back.

Yesterday when I visited her, she opened the door and I took a double take. She was wearing pink lipstick and a dusting of blue eyeshadow.

I won’t say what conclusion I, and my daughters, jumped to. After all, it’s just lipstick, right?

Life: Deal With It!

Life: Deal With It!

(Whinging Valley, Vortexia) – Deal with it! Get over it! How many times have we wished we could shout that at someone? The problem is, sometimes we need to shout it to ourselves. Why, I had to chastise myself just the other day to deal with an issue I would have rather ignored.

I can’t remember exactly what I was in such a dither about. Aging, most likely. Or perhaps the maddening, convoluted process of getting published. Maybe it was the fact that my father is battling lung cancer. Probably all three, with the latter providing the primary reason for wanting to hide my head in the proverbial sand.

Ah, denial, my dysfunctional friend. It’s such an attractive alternative in dealing with fear; in dealing with all of life’s imperfections. Indeed, I’ve perfected the art of pretending life is painless, that there’s no illness that can’t be cured and no life that can’t be resurrected. I imagine that I will live to be 100 and so will all of my friends and loved ones. I imagine every newlywed will be married happily ever after.

When accused of not being a realist, my defense, of course, is that I’m an optimist. But I delude myself; optimism is faith, and hope, in the face of reality. It allows us to tackle and defeat an enemy and move on. Denial is fantasy, pure and simple. It traps us in time and space and strangles any chance of gaining victory over our demons.

To deny the challenges and natural consequences of aging is illusory and just plain stupid. I might as well tell myself money grows on trees as believe growing old is a walk in the park.

And I’m learning to accept the goal of being a published novelist as the sadistic pursuit it is, rather than the romanticized image I once entertained. What a relief.

I will lose my dad some day. There’s no denying death, that grand-daddy of all fears, ever present boogey-man of our minds, thief of our peace and tormentor of our souls. It is the ultimate denial killer. After interviewing the Vicar of Baghdad recently, my pre-occupation with my father’s cancer subsided. There’s nothing like talking with someone who faces death everyday with a smile on their face to put it all in perspective. I’m no longer thinking of death in terms of “this side of the veil.” Instead, I’m training myself to look beyond the horizon into eternity.

So, after a two-week hiatus brought on by a writers’ conference, multiple manuscript submissions, and my dad’s health crisis, I’m back in Vortexia, refocused, rolling with the punches, raring to move on and deal with it.

It’s high time.

The Long Arm of the Law Reaches Around the World, Snagging Unsuspecting Man

The Long Arm of the Law Reaches Around the World, Snagging Unsuspecting Man

(Veni-Vidi-Vici, Vortexia) - Last summer we were in Italy for a Bertozzi family reunion. My husband, Big Time Dave, had unanimously been voted our designated driver. But before I tell you what happened this week, you must know something about Dave. He is a good driver. I didn’t say “safe” driver. “Good” and “safe” are sometimes two different things.

Dave is one of those fearless, “take-the-bull-by-the-horns” types; the kind of driver you would want to be in control of your car in an emergency. I’ve witnessed some of his hair-raising maneuvers and can guarantee they border on the miraculous. To this day, I still marvel at some of them.

Like the time we were separated from our lead car in the heart of Paris during rush hour and he did a U-turn in the middle of the Place de la Concorde. Eye-witnesses on the street were astonished. Or the time he returned a car rental in downtown Marseilles within moments of boarding our train. Anyone who has been to this little French Algeria on the Cote d’Azure knows what an incredible feat of motor engineering that must have been. Or the time he backed up on an interstate overpass in Rome. I nearly lost my lunch on that one.

Of course, that’s the kind of moxie a driver must have to drive in Italy.

As fate would have it, however, this week (almost a year from the date we were in Italy last year) Dave received a traffic ticket for 102 euros in the mail from EMO - The European Municipality Outsourcing. It was a lovely looking envelope with lovely print and grand flourishes; just like everything else in Italy. Lovely.

The loveliness was lost on Dave. You see, my husband is also a proud man when it comes to traffic fines. He was initially incredulous, then indignant, and finally outraged by a traffic camera’s claim that, on the outskirts of Florence last August he – according to Art. Lo 7C.14 – CIRCULATED ON THE BUS LANE DESPITE THE PROHIBITING TRAFFIC SIGNS AT THE BEGINNING OF THE BUS LANE.

Although he suffered a mental block while trying to recall that day in Florence, I remembered it vividly. Dave was in the front seat asking (shouting, actually) “What lane do I get in?” I and a friend in the back seat, magnifiers in hand, were pouring over a map straddled across our laps trying to make sense of the tangle of roads before us in the split-second we had to make a decision. It was the first of so many fiascos that day on the road to Rome, I’m surprised our mail box wasn’t flooded with traffic tickets when we got home.

Poor Dave. The long arm of the law, reaching all the way from Italy, has found him.

At first he debated not paying the fine, but thought better of it when he realized it would mean he could never go back. He would be a wanted man the next time we visited his cousins, and that just would not do. So, he’s sucking it up and coughing up the fine.

Given the daring reputation Daddy Dave has built for himself these last years, my kids and I are laughing till our sides hurt.

Knowing Which Bullets to Dodge and Which Bullets to Chase Down

KNOWING WHICH BULLETS TO DODGE AND WHICH BULLETS TO CHASE DOWN

(Pensees Park, Vortexia) – I have been informed by a concerned reader that a certain medication affiliated with a certain medical procedure I wrote about recently can cause kidney failure. Since I am still alive, I can safely assume I dodged that bullet, though the air is certainly thick with them, 24/7. It’s a real battle out there, folks.

Worse yet, (or better yet, depending on your ability to handle morbid thoughts) these metaphorical “bullets” seem to come with their intended victims’ names engraved on them along with the purpose of their mission…such as “Teresa Neumann – kill kidneys.”

Everyone has their bullet-dodging “close call” stories, of course. Those times we “just missed” being in a car accident, or “almost” lost our job, or just in the “nick of time” were snatched from disaster. Unfortunately, we rarely have the benefit of seeing these allegorical bullets until they zing past us so closely they sting.

To complicate matters, timing and location are critical to the ability of these “bullets” to hit their targeted victim. Take the case of our neighbor who was killed instantly while on his daily morning walk by a man who fell asleep at the wheel. If our neighbor had only slept a moment later, or had that second cup of coffee before leaving, or (fill in the blanks), he wouldn’t have been at the exact place at the exact time he was killed. Mind-boggling. Scary. Shades of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.

But, seriously, there is another side to (dare I phrase it?) the “destiny” coin, and those are bullets of grace. Bullets engraved with promises, revelation and healing. These are the bullets that slap us upside the head with joy when they hit. The jobs we were convinced we’d never get, but did. The perfect mate we thought we would never find, but did. Those are the bullets we want to hit us smack on. No running, ducking or hiding from them, my friends.

Come to think of it, since 2009 has been a war-torn year for me, I guess I should take my own advice, quit cowering in fear over the next bullet I need to dodge and go on the offensive.

If you see any grace bullets with my name on them would you send them my way?

5 Reasons Why Women (Should) Love Colonoscopies

5 REASONS WOMEN (SHOULD) LOVE COLONOSCOPIES

(True Confessions, Vortexia) – I recently had a colonoscopy. For reasons I won’t go into here, I have had three over the course of ten years. I say it unashamedly. Proudly even.

The king of colon health awareness is, of course, the legendary humorist Dave Berry. Since it would be impossible to top his hilarious piece de resistance, A Journal Into My Colon and Yours miamiherald.com/283/story/427603.html I will simply address the benefits of this procedure from a woman’s perspective.

There are five very good reasons why women should/would love having a colonoscopy:

1. The dreaded “prep” the day before the procedure, in which the patient is expected to drink copious amounts of fluid, and deposit equally copious amounts of fluid in their septic or sewer system, is an excuse to sequester yourself from the niggling demands of husband and/or children.
2. The dreaded “prep” is also a convenient way to drop a couple of pounds over night.
3. You are “knocked out” (semi-conscious) during the actual procedure. It means that you will enjoy a guilt-free deep sleep surrounded by motherly, pampering nurses; during the day, no less. Nice.
4. Upon arriving back home the day of the procedure you can milk your recuperation for all it’s worth. No cooking, no cleaning, no nothing. Grab a blanket, a good book and/or video and sequester yourself from the niggling demands of husband and/or children.
5. Better yet, niggling husbands and/or children will be forced to feel sorry for you and perhaps learn to appreciate you more. At least in the short term, until the day after the procedure when you will be expected to return to full-duty.

The truth be told, I am guilty of Nos. 1-4 above. And no, I don’t care that my husband’s empathy for me stems from the fact he’s glad he’s not the one having the abhorrent procedure. Sympathy is sympathy and I’ll take it whenever I can.

Of course, I jest. Kind of.

Really girls, you can do it! As I’m fond of telling my disbelieving husband: “I’ve given birth three times. A colonoscopy is nothing!”

If you have any suspicious symptoms, see your doctor and ask if you need to have a colonoscopy. If you are uninsured, check with local agencies to see if there are low cost clinics that can help you.

The peace of mind that comes from knowing you have a clean bill of health, or that you were able to catch something early before it became untreatable, is well worth the effort made. Not to mention the perks of rare self-indulgence women can glean from the experience.

Don’t put it off any longer. Do something about it today.