Spring cleaning... from the inside

Urgh. If you are squeamish about... erm... toilet things, then go no further. You have been warned and I can now take no responsibility for spoiling your Sunday lunch if you choose, despite my being very clear, to continue.

Normally, these are not things which I write about, them falling into that file underneath all my others, the tatty brown one with the torn cover that says UN ENTIONABLES on the spine, the M having been covered by a splat of coffee from the mug which I bumped one misty Saturday morning while trying to coordinate my limbs before fully waking up. It's just that it was something that was so horrendous and, in a sick way, hilarious, that I can't not write about it.

Let me begin at the beginning (I keep trying to read up on how to write properly and there is one thread that goes through all the words of writing wisdom: Start at the Beginning. I'm trying.) Here goes:

I've been feeling just a tad under the weather for a while - bloated, vaguely nauseous, very tired and I decided last week to stop ignoring it and see the doctor.

I love my doctor, he's like a grandfather and often tries to persuade me to go to whiskey tastings with him. He prodded me and sent me off to have an X-ray, the report of which I read on my way back to him. I hate the way X-ray people seal the envelope with the report and disc (no longer do you get a huge envelope with enormous negatives showing your innards) as if it's a secret you're not allowed to read. They're MY innards.

Unfortunately, the report said something I didn't like. I have faecal loading (ugh... a medical way of saying a blockage in my intestine, a.k.a. severe constipation.) Wierdly, my normal 'routine' had been, well, normal, but inside me, there it was for everybody (who saw the disc or read the report) to see. And it certainly explained my malaise.

My dear old doctor smirked at me as he said: "You'll have to do a major washout. Best you set aside tomorrow. You won't be going anywhere," as he wrote a script for a melodiously odious sounding Golytely. Honestly, who names this stuff?

Things I learnt on Friday, on my date with said Mr Golytely:

1. Drinking four litres of what tastes like salt water over four hours can not be likened to cocktails on a Friday afternoon.
2. Adding a vaguely vanilla-ish aroma to said salt water just makes it more sickly (but thanks for trying, manufacturers.)
3. Looking 6 months pregnant due to the 3 litres of vanilla-aroma'd salt water in your poor tummy makes one feel sicker. And silly.
4. Expelling four litres of vanilla-aroma'd salt water from your nether regions over a period of approximately 8 hours, which feels like 8 days, is not fun.
5. Being phoned half-hourly by your sniggering sister for running commentry on 'how much has gone in and how much out' does nothing to improve one's mood.
6. Having one's stomach sound like a cross between a coffee percolater and a tractor is disturbing in the most disturbing way.
7. When having to go through such an ordeal, plan it for a work day, so at least you get a day off school in return for your pain and suffering.

Problem, is after it all, I don't seem to be feeling better and my tummy (poor thing) is still not a happy camper. I am holding thumbs that this doesn't mean that I suffered this ordeal for no better reason than to regale you with my sorry tale, I shall speak to my kindly doctor tomorrow. Blegh.

I told you to stop reading if you're squeamish, didn't I?