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I know that getting older usually means receiving fewer opportunities to spend quality time with your parents, but I hope I'm forgiven for squandering one of those rare chances by refusing to write on their butts.

“Come on,” my mom goaded, “I have a brown eyeliner pencil in my purse.”

“No!”

“But he'll get a kick out of it!” she said.

And the truth was that he probably would have.  How often does the standard family physician go to give a couple their colonoscopies and find something like “I'M READY FOR MY CHEEK-UP” etched on the field of battle?

But hey, I know I'm not the most glamorous of writers but I have to draw the line somewhere; my only duty as I saw it was to transport the two to their appointments with the world's least cuddly pipecleaner.  Preparing for the procedure means “cleaning out” your system 24 hours beforehand by not consuming anything except clear liquids and laxatives.  You’re not allowed to drive yourself to or from the hospital while in this state because, as we all know, the best drivers out there are full of it.

I thought my job was complete once I got them to the prep room, but several minutes later a nurse came out to the waiting room.

“Would you like to see your parents?” she asked.

Depends on how much of them they’ll make me see, I thought, but nodded.

For those of you blessed with blissful ignorance, the procedure for a colonoscopy is to take a long tube with a camera on the end and inspect the intestine for polyps and potential malignancies.  The bad part about it all is that the doctor takes the shortest route possible to the colon—yes, through there—and snakes the tube around the twists and turns of the intestine. It’s a lot like that carnival game where you try to get the ring through the tangled wire without touching it, only the doctor is taking the wire and moving it through the ring, which is—can I end this analogy, please?

And it was with all this fun in mind that I listened to my mother complain that she wasn’t going first.

Once the colonoscopy ends, it’s not quite over yet.  Surprisingly, the colon does not react well to having a tube inserted in it (“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!” is what most doctors agree its reaction is).  So, to give more room to work with, air is blown into the colon to expand its walls.  That air has to come out after the procedure, and it doesn’t leave quietly.  The nurses, understanding of the natural embarrassment such a condition may cause, wheel you near as many old ladies as possible and run off giggling.

That’s where I was with my dad after he got out of recovery, chatting about what he could recall of his experience through the haze of Versed, when there suddenly began a low rumble like a timpani.  It crescendoed after a few seconds into the peal of a broken trumpet, wavering at a pitch that would’ve made Dizzy Gilespie bow his head before echoing off into the light fizzle of lingering fireworks on a hot summer’s night.  The entire symphony had to have lasted 20 seconds at the very least.

Old ladies silent around us, we busted out laughing.  Who said you needed an eyeliner pencil for family bonding?