Everyone has a colon, and some of them get cancerous, so periodically us older people need to have a professional take a good close look to be sure everything is alright. And so someone invented the colonoscopy (colon, from the anatomy of the large intestine, and -oscopy from the Greek let’s take a good long look up where the sun doesn’t shine). (There are other colons that people generally don’t know how to use properly: those will be ignored here; so will semicolons. Actually, anatomical and political semicolons might be really problematic. But we won’t go there.)

You have to get things really clean for this epic -oscopic journey, and the cleaning process involves a prescription for a three-part rocket juice combo. The scheduling nurse talked about the wonderful new flavors. I remembered the nasty taste of the last rocket juice I’d had and was intrigued and perhaps even a little hopeful about this new twist. That was until, later, in answer to my chit chat about these new flavors, the guy handing me my prescription rocket-juice packet said “That’s what they always say.”

Back home, I dropped the whole pile of modern medicine in a corner and marked my calendar for a day of fun not nearly far enough in the future. I am on the five-year plan, and it really didn’t seem like enough time had gone by yet since the last one. But it had, and I’d learned a few lessons last time that promised to make this time a bit less memorable. Like DON’T START THE ROCKET-JUICE REGIMEN AT WORK!!! It was literally many grueling hours before I dared to drive home, late and very wrung out.

The big day arrived, and this time, after a tasty all-day diet of green jello (which will now be a once-every-five-years treat), I got home at 4:00 PM to leisurely sip down the bottle of rocket juice primer over the next hour and a half. Lemon-lime-flavored drinks will also not be on my menu again soon. I mixed up the full gallon of rocket juice (the main fuel) with one of the new flavors and let it cool in the fridge for two hours. Then, at 6:00 PM, I took a small pill with my first big glass of the main fuel. The little pill truly is a miracle of medicine. Basically, it installs a temporary one-way valve so the rocket juice only comes out in the intended direction. Unfortunately, with the first taste of the rocket fuel I knew that the new flavors were a cruel joke. The main rocket fuel is just purely nasty stuff, and I was downing a big glass of it every 12 minutes. The little pill did its job.

I was a little surprised that the primer hadn’t begun to work yet, but after glass three of the main fuel we were ready for liftoff. I might mention that this regimen is not a gentle cleansing. No—it is very aggressive, and it brings fear and uncertainty. I had forgotten the details of this. I won’t go into them here, but next time I think I will install a safety harness on my favorite toilet and put on safety goggles and a helmet before strapping in between quick visits to the fridge for the next glass of fuel. It is three and a half hours of pure fun if, like me, you drain every last drop of the fuel. And heck, a ride like that every five years—you want to get your money’s worth.

The next morning we drove to the clinic. You need a ride home afterwards because the procedure requires general anesthetic. I changed into one of those backless gowns, their evil purpose never more apparent. The prep nurses and the doctor were all cheerful, and I was, too, because, yes, the end was in sight. Soon enough I was knocked out and dreaming of something pushing uncomfortably upwards. The periscope, I guess. Then I was up and changing back into my clothes and not retaining anything whatsoever in my addled brain except details of the rocket juice ride of the night before. (The safety harness would be good. I almost saw Russia.)

The post-op report looks good, literally. With the snappy color images, it is clear that the revolution of digital photography has reached the ends of the earth. No National Geographic quality stuff, I’m afraid, but maybe having color images of your intestines helps make that fiber thing ring more true. I don’t know. Maybe if we hung these pictures on the fridge it would help with dieting, though.