But enough of that. As of this point, I've already been at the doctor's for half an hour, and the long black tube with the light on the end of it is still lying in a tray next to the table I'm sprawled out on.
The next half hour is pretty much a one-note tune: what little pain there was was brief and mild, but the discomfort, as the doctor wiggled the scope around inside me, was constant. I tried to relax, and I got through it, but at times it seemed it would never be over.
In the end (so to speak), it was worth it. The bottom line (so to speak) is that I'm healthier than I thought I was. For once, I got the results right away. The scope turned up some inflammation, which the doctor told me was consistent with his initial diagnosis of a fast-moving virus, now long gone. He found no polyps, nothing to indicate cancer. He even used the word, cancer, to tell me he didn't see anything that points in that direction.
So was it really worth it? Oh, yeah. It was worth it even though my belly was sore for the next two hours. (I mean, it was sore the way the guy must have felt who got kicked in the stomach by Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible II.) It was worth it even though I spent the rest of the day (and all night) running back and forth to the bathroom.