My digestive system has never really worked all that well. Can you envision a 17-year-old girl at the doctor’s office complaining of stomach rumblings, pain and nausea? In those days, those medically misogynist days, the doctor pronounced my complaint as being generated by stress. Sure. I guess that was as good an answer as any.

My dad’s family was known for its digestive distress. Uncle Joe actually carried a cobalt blue bottle of Gelusil in his coat pocket, swigging some down before and after meals. Same for my dad, although he kept the medication in the medicine chest. My Aunt Lucy had a list of foods that caused her distress but, like her male siblings, she would rather dose herself with antacids than pass up a glass of beer and a sandwich of liverwurst and pumpernickel bread.

And so it came to pass that I was diagnosed with GERD, gastroesophageal reflux caused by a very weak sphincter at the bottom of my esophagus, most probably hereditary. I, like my Aunt Lucy, had a list of forbidden foods which I ignored. I paid the price many, many times. Mylanta, Maalox, Gaviscon, Tums…you name the OTC preparation and I had a container of it on hand. Then came proton pump meds which helped tremendously, but they, like many drugs, had untoward side effects. So, I tried to adhere to the restricted diet that forbid citrus, chocolate, fried foods, caffeine, alcohol, onions, garlic, tomatoes, spicy foods, carbonated beverages, etc. I added the etc. because there was always the added proscription to avoid anything that particularly made digestion difficult. Even fresh greens caused me trouble. Did I say that I tried? There was always the hope that somehow I could escape the consequences. That rarely occurred. I mean, what is left to eat?

It was about two months ago that my gastroenterologist’s PA told me that I was scheduled for not only an endoscopy (upper GI) but also a colonoscopy based on my list of digestive complaints. Saying the words and writing the date and time in my appointment book was easy. So is writing a list of to do’s that includes, “reorganize the closets”… looks good, but the reality is way off from the writing.

Now, I’ve had both an endoscopy and a colonoscopy before. The procedure itself is easy mostly because you are, as they say, “sedated,” which translated means that you are out, if not cold, close to it. You present yourself to the office at the time and date appointed. The staff is cordial, helpful and professional. You are given a gown, wait your turn, are fitted with oxygen canula, EKG thingies, given something through the IV and then you wake up and it’s all over, except …

The event is nothing compared to the preparation for it. In the past, my preparation took one day. One day. Not this time.

Let me tell you that the draconian tortures of the Middle Ages don’t even come close to what it means to do a two-day prep for twofer. The instructions for preparation came in the mail in a large envelope. If I were waiting to hear if I’d been accepted at Harvard, a large envelope would have been something to celebrate. For endoscopy/colonoscopy prep, the large envelope was less than celebratory.

Inside the envelope, there were forms to fill out and instructions, five double-sided pages of instructions. Five pages? Where was my highlighter? I read them over carefully and started to underline. Then, as the day grew closer, I added yellow sticky notes to my calendar to remind me of what had to be done on which day.

One week out my diet could not include any fresh fruit or vegetables, nut or whole grains. “Low residue” was the goal. On about the fourth day of that week I absentmindedly ate three pecans. Had I messed up the whole prep? The doctor’s office said no, but to be more diligent in following orders. Was I a tad bit anxious? You bet.

The second part, two days out from the procedure, began with a double whammy of fasting with the exception of clear liquids and a dosing of Dulcolax and Miralax accompanied with an admonition not to stray too far from the loo. What an understatement.

On the day before and continuing into the day of the procedure, I was to consume 128 ounces of a liquid that defies description when it comes to texture and taste. Taste could be compared to liquid Styrofoam soaked in old socks and the texture resembled a really cheap olive oil used to fry fish. The instruction said to drink eight ounces over 10 to 15 minutes until half was consumed. The second half was to be imbibed at 6 a.m. on the day of the event. Previous experience solidified the admonition to stay close to the water closet.

So, there we were, stuck on 690 in traffic on our way to East Syracuse where the procedure was to take place, worrying that we would be late and what the consequences would be. It was now two and one half days of fasting. I had not had anything to eat with the exception of some orange Jello. I was empty and concerned. Did you ever notice how many food commercials there are on TV?

When we arrived at the doctor’s office, we found out that a glitch in the heat and hot water had put the surgeon’s schedule behind and my 1 o’clock procedure would be pushed to later in the afternoon. Did I want to proceed? Are you kidding? You would have had to drag me out of that office. I was in a state of readiness that I did not want to prepare for any time again.

As expected, the staff was great, the procedures went as planned and I went home with instructions not to do any driving, heavy lifting, laundry, vacuuming, cooking or using sharp objects.

I also had two sheets of paper that included pictures of the interior of my esophagus and colon and the lovely words that said that I wouldn’t have to do this again. Heck, I am 84. Why would I want to do this again?

And yes, that doctor that said it was stress when I was 17, was wrong. I do have GERD and the list of forbiddens hasn’t changed. But, as one of the nurses said, as I was drifting off into fentanyl oblivion. You are 84, live your life. I am trying.