I get poked

I now have an appointment to have my insides explored.  My GI specialist, whom I haven’t seen in several years, listened to my recent history, refreshed his memory of me, laid me out on the exam table, directing me to puff like a bellows while he prodded at my belly, and ended up by agreeing with my GP that given my history and age, I needed to have an endoscopy and colonoscopy both to see if I’m bleeding someplace, and that it ought to happen as soon as a table time could be arranged.  The best time they had was Monday the fourteenth at seven-bleedin’-thirty in the ayem, and please-be-there-an-hour-ahead-of-time-so-we-can-sedate-you.  I sighed and agreed, and got a laundry list of instructions about which medications to stop and when, eating nothing save clear liquids for a whole day before, and how to take a bunch of medications to force diarrhea upon me and clear my lower gut.  Given all the prep I have to do, it’s no doubt easiest to do it on Sunday, where I can be at home for the most unpleasant bits.  I’m supposed to be able to leave the center by late morning Monday, as soon as they think I’m alert enough to be safe, but I was warned that I’ll probably still feel laid out and unlike doing anything else for the rest of the day.