Stool cultures have revealed nothing. The insertion of an eighteen-inch narrow tube up my butt, through my rectum and beyond will allow my physician to see what's going on and to take biopsies of suspicious tissue. I haven't eaten in 24 hours. This morning I self-administered enemas. I now remove my clothes, lie down on the doctor's table, curling into what's almost a fetal position.
Insertion is no problem.
A somewhat odd feeling, but not exactly unfamiliar. Temperature in the low 70s, the sun barely above the horizon, casting a hot golden glow upon the mountains. Not much traffic, people out walking their dogs, kids on their way to school. I cycle out toward Highway 62, which will rise steadily for three miles, up into the high desert. I've been at this training since January, and it's paid off.