Round 2 #Colonoscopy #Notfun —And How’s Your Week?

thoughts on

Warning: This post may offer a little TMI for the faint-hearted. But may be very informative for those who suffer with any type of bowel disorders and are curious to find out how other sufferers get through colonoscopies. I know I spent numerous hours googling every prep and review I could find.


It sure arrived quick enough; my second colonoscopy in three months. You can read the original post I wrote about Round 1 here. This time it was a redo because apparently the toxic potion I ingested in round one wasn’t potent enough for my bionic intestines. This time I was given, if you can believe, an even worse potion to take, complete with an assortment of laxatives to be taken pre-potion.

The delightful procedure of prepping was done yesterday (Tuesday) and it was just a part of the crappy week I’ve been having so far. (I’ll fill you in on the other crap later.)

So I tried my best to do everything I could to make this test go smoother than the last, and be better cleaned out by eating very light for a few days prior (which incidentally helps with the hunger one experiences on prep day from no food.) After taking the prescribed laxatives and experiencing nothing to write home about, I then began drinking the first of four litres of vile liquid around 2pm. In addition to the prescribed disgust, I also chugged an additional two litres of water throughout the day, hoping to push things along.

As a gal who eats holistically and doesn’t like to put additives, nitrates or fake sugars in her body, I felt as though I was ingesting poison into my empty stomach. My head was pounding and my stomach swelled to something which I imagined twenty months pregnant would look like, and felt like. Three hours went by and still no movement! Are you kidding me? I’ve read nothing but horror stories about people who stayed planted on the toilet for hours during this workout. Finally into the fourth hour I felt an urge, although not an urgent urge, it was an urge to go. Within a two hour span I went about five times. And although I didn’t feel nearly done, I was done.

I worried all night about not being ready for the scope the next morning, as I kept warm in my sweat suit, under a blanket with the air conditioning turned off in a blistering heatwave, where I left my husband stifling. That stuff goes through your veins and intestines like anti-freeze. I was panicking that once again, my scope wouldn’t be good because I couldn’t completely empty. I felt like crap all night, slept about five hours, then headed out early for the test.

I have to admit, the special clinic I go to for the procedure is pretty awesome. The nurses are fabulous, as they take your vitals, get your IV port ready for sedation, and make you comfortable in your hospital gown in your own private cubicle while resting on the gurney awaiting your turn. I was rolled into the small operating room where I got to chat with the doctor before they put me out cold, THE WAY I LIKE IT. I don’t want to see or feel anything. Dr. B. and me are almost like old chums now. Having recently been through that a few other times; while making jokes, I tried to make light of the situation.

I told her about my bathroom struggles and she couldn’t understand how that potent cocktail only sent me to the bathroom four or five times. I proceeded to tell her that because of my having Crohn’s disease, I’ve become an all or nothing girl — either I live in the bathroom, or a stick of dynamite can’t make me flinch. Again, she laughed. But on a serious note, I had to give her the bathroom report because she had to decide whether or not to scope me. I asked her nicely to please not reject me and make me go through this yet again.  FIND A WAY!!!! I asked her if she found that I wasn’t clear enough to see through, to just irrigate me, WHILE I’M OUT. Whatever it takes.

When I awoke back in my cubicle about forty-five minutes later, I really felt drugged; much more than the previous time. After a nurse unhooked my IV and assorted wires, I waited to have my chat with Dr. B. As I suspected, once again, I wasn’t  fully emptied but miraculously Dr. B. managed to make her way through for me. Okay, so yay, she didn’t find any more polyps, other than the three she removed on the previous visit. But I was sadly informed that I not only suffer from Crohn’s disease, I now also have it’s evil twin, Colitis.

I voiced my concern to Dr. B. about how hard it is on my body to go on this evil cleanse, and that I’m sort of in a Catch 22 where it’s very important I have this test, as evil as it is. It’s not easy going through prep for the average healthier person, and worse for someone like me who suffers with digestive orders. Too many people suffer from Crohn’s and Colitis in my family, and a few have already passed from colon cancer. I’m darn petrified and I’m not afraid to admit it.

So Dr. B. wants me back in September to discuss pathology results and to see what we can do about future colonoscopies, which she now wants me to have annually. I’m home now writing this with my stomach still sticking out, still under a blanket.

Okay, so that’s not my only shitty part of the week (pun intended). This has also come to my attention this week:


  • Remember I mentioned to you guys that I was audited back in June, and the havoc I went through getting it all sorted our for the accountant and government, which still cost me a pretty penny? Well, Monday (the day before prep day) I received another letter from the tax man. This time they want to do a three year audit on my husband! This of course entails, doing the work all over again. Once again, I’ll be digging and sorting receipts and my book publishing gets left on the back burner.
  • And if that wasn’t enough, today after coming home from my colonoscopy, I received more good news from my pals at Revenue Canada. They sent me a letter notifying me that my claims aren’t accepted and a (huge) bill will follow.

Now I don’t know about you guys, but my stress goes right to my intestines. Is it any wonder that one of the most potent laxatives known to man doesn’t have much effect on me? GO AWAY FULL MOON!

And how is your week going?

DGKaye ©2015

Five Star Treatment – Meno-What? A Memoir by D.G. Kaye | Smorgasbord – Variety is the spice of life

book reviews

 I’d like to thank my friend and writer/author Sally Cronin from Smorgasbord Invitation, for choosing my book MenoWhat? A Memoir,  to showcase on her esteemed blog.

Sally is well-known in the blogging community. She’s a person with a lot of wisdom and a wealth of information on many topics. Sally’s blog is aptly named because she blogs about an array of topics. You can find wonderful stories, Monday funnies, authors showcased, and several articles on health and well-being, and more, when you visit Sally’s blog. I’m so grateful to have been welcomed into her circles.

Below is Sally’s introduction to my book Menowhat? A Memoir:

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“As we go into the summer months I am going to be selecting books for the series as well as asking you to contribute your own books or those of authors you would like to recommend.  There are now over 50 books in the series all with 5 star reviews and covering a very diverse range of subjects.. The link is at the bottom of the post.

It is safe to say that any woman who has reached 50 is in the middle of one of the most natural but often challenging transformations of a human body.  There is life after menopause and in fact there are countless advantages but during the process as hormones fluctuate up and down like a rollercoaster, physically, mentally and emotionally we also take the ride of our lives and usually drag hapless husbands and family members along with us!!”  . . .  Read More by clicking the link below:

Source: Five Star Treatment – Meno-What? A Memoir by D.G. Kaye | Smorgasbord – Variety is the spice of life

Thank you kindly Sally!

DGKaye©July 2015

Lost #Vegas




While sitting in a café on our last evening in Las Vegas, I reaffirmed to myself that this trip to what was once my favorite getaway spot for decades, was no longer fulfilling my passion.

Much has changed about that once mysterious, intriguing little spot in the desert since I first went there over thirty years ago. (Am I giving my age away?)

The grand allure Vegas held for me in the past had vanished, along with much of its old charm. Gone are the days of ‘beautiful people’ dressed in their finery just to enter a casino at night. Gone are the days of $1.99 buffets, free comp tickets given out to select patrons by pit bosses as a thanks for leaving a donation, or just because they liked you.


The hotel rooms were once all so elegant, with marbled bathrooms and comfortable beds. Many hotels still have their marbled bathrooms, only now, they seem to be in need of an overhaul. The hotel I stayed in, although the room was fairly nice and could have used updating, most definitely had the original mattresses. Mine was so soft and worn, it put my hip out, and still hasn’t healed. Room comfort is not a huge priority there. And I wasn’t impressed by the $32 a night, plus tax, ‘resort fee’ they began charging over a year ago. I questioned the girl at the front desk as to what ‘this fee’ is for. She smiled with her response as she told me I would have ‘free’ (wasn’t I just now paying for it?) internet, parking and use of the gym. I replied, “I don’t have a car, or a computer here, and the last thing I came to Vegas for was to go to the gym.” Then I proceeded to try to persuade her to knock off the bogus $212.62 U.S. charge (That’s $260. Canadian dollars!) For ZIP!—to no avail.

In older decades, the nightclubs featured icons like Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., et al. It wasn’t uncommon to find any one of those stars pass through a casino in between sets or during the day. The Strip, Las Vegas Boulevard, was merely a dusty road that led from McCarran airport to the strip of iconic hotels that housed all the excitement of the town. The short five minute drive offered a view of merely vast desert patches of cacti, interspersed with the infamous hotels of yesteryear.

And there wasn’t a child in sight.

I’ve been to Vegas over thirty times through the decades. I’ve watched, in sadness, some of those beloved, iconic hotels get blown up to smithereens, in order for the bigger and better ones to take their places. But bigger wasn’t better; at least not for those like me who loved the adult wonderland that it once was.

Vegas has become too big, too crowded, and certainly one jumbo commercialized enterprise. The streets are crowded by the new younger generation, baby carriages, and people hounding you to ‘ultimately’ buy time shares, see hot girls, and once I was even offered ‘free money’ if I partook in some seminar. Ya, trust me, nothing is free, especially in Vegas. Heck, you can’t even take a picture of a costumed character on a street corner without them charging you for the photo.

The entertainment is mostly geared towards the younger crowd; pool parties, DJ’ed nightclubs, and other assorted themed parties. Sure, there are still comedy shows and various Cirque de Soleil shows, which can run you $300 to $400 dollars for two tickets.

The casinos don’t seem to be as full anymore. The city earns its revenues from the entertainment avenues they now provide. This leaves me wondering, where do these young folks get this money to spend there? Another distant thing of the past is the constant ringing of jackpot bells from slot machines. I don’t recall hearing the chiming of ‘Ding, ding, ding’ in any casino I walked through.


Drinks are still free in the casinos, but step outside to anywhere, and you’ll pay large for a cocktail, and even for water. I was blown away when my hub and I ate dinner in a moderately priced restaurant and the glass of (inexpensive) wine I ordered was $12 U.S. dollars! Sheesh! They sold that same bottle of wine in the Dollar store there for eight bucks!


I still don’t get why people want to take their children and particularly babies to a place like that. Smoking is only permitted in casinos there now, but most hotels you must walk through the open-air casinos which adjoin the lobbies. Kids aren’t allowed, supposedly in the casinos, but that didn’t stop so many of them from running around the slot machines, nor did it prompt any pit bosses to alert a player to this rule who continued to play blackjack with her baby carriage parked right beside the table!

Texting has also become the main form of communication there. Hundreds of zombie-like people pave the streets, aimlessly, looking down at their phones. Even the restaurants, which many of them seem to be hosted by very young girls, can leave one waiting in long lines until the next table becomes available, because the hostesses are busy chatting and texting, instead of noticing the empty tables that have yet to be cleaned and reset.

What has happened to my beloved Vegas? As I continued to watch the crowded sidewalks, and the constant line-ups of bumper-to-bumper traffic on the now very busy, eight lane Las Vegas Boulevard, where the taxi meters chug away at lightning speed, I had to wonder where did all the boomers go?

Sure, there were boomers there, but not nearly as many as the younger generation. We were certainly a minority. My husband and I shook our heads at what has become of a place we both once adored, and decided the people of yesteryear must have already moved on to places such as Reno or maybe Tahoe. We both said that we wouldn’t go back to Vegas for a very long time; if ever.

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But my love for the desert hasn’t faltered. And as many of you know, my newest passion is for Arizona. Lots of open space, so much to see and do, and the warm, inviting desert climate will become our new winter home, starting this coming winter.


DGKaye ©July 2015

A Penny’s Worth

My two cents

Things that make me go hmmm?


While strolling the Miracle Mile Mall underneath the hotel I stayed at in Las Vegas, Planet Hollywood, I passed a little kiosk which sold little charms and baubles. My eye caught a silver bracelet, which had engraved in it, Live Laugh Love. Being that the saying is part of my mantra and website header, I had to have it.

When I went to pay the petite blond woman, with the thick Slavic accent, she quoted me the price. The dollar value was irrelevant, but the cents came to sixty-two.

I scrambled in my wallet for the two pennies, and found one. I asked her if that was good enough and she sternly said, “No, it’s two cents.” I chuckled at her and asked her if she was serious.

I also wondered if she was going to let go of a nice sale for a lousy penny. And then I said to her, “In my country, Canada, we don’t even use pennies anymore; we round off to the nearest nickel.”

The woman replied, “Well, this is America. Our pennies are still worth money.” I found her tone and lecture to be quite aggressive and unfriendly. If I didn’t love everything that bracelet signified to me, I’d have left it there.

Now, I know things aren’t as cheap in the States as they once were. And I know you can’t really buy anything for a dollar there either; just as in Canada. So I found her defense for her ‘not natural born American attitude’ a bit over the top.

Still, I suppose she had the right to state her opinion about a country that gave her citizenship. But in this day and age to make a big deal over a penny seems so insignificant.

I found another penny at the bottom of my purse. She got her two cents from me.

DGKaye  ©July 2015

The Joys of #Travel . . .Not!


Traveling is hard enough these days, but add in a mix of extra city traffic, due to lane closures, construction and Toronto hosting the PanAm games, and driving in this city is a horror.

As many of you know, I’ve just returned from a week off to Las Vegas. This post is one of two (maybe three) I’ve written on my little getaway.

Within the week before I went on vacation to Las Vegas, two of our Canadian airlines had six bomb threats. And two days before I left, there was a Wildcat Strike by the fuelers of the airplanes. It was also July fourth weekend, and the U.S. was on an extra precautionary high alert.

Amidst all that commotion, you have me and my husband hoping our plane would take off SAFELY. There were two days of backlogged planes that were cancelled and delayed prior to the 5th, when we were to leave. I spent the previous day keeping an ear to the news updates, in hopes of hearing about the sudden unauthorized strike being resolved.

I went and did my 24 hour prior to flight check-in, and was happy to find that my flight, so far, hadn’t yet been cancelled. While I was surfing the Air Canada site, I thought I might as well double-check the baggage restrictions. My instincts told me that because there had been so much chatter and complaints about people getting  ridiculous with the size and amount of their carry-ons, trying to avoid baggage fees, that the airlines may start clamping down at any time. No doubt, it’s those people with over-loaded carry-ons that ruin it for others. The overhead storage compartments on the plane get over-stuffed and the last stragglers on the plane often have no place to put their carry-ons.

So, naturally, as I surmised, the airlines had changed their dimensions of allowable carry-ons. Was it a coincidence these new guidelines changed within a month of my travel date? I found out that if regulations aren’t followed, our carry-ons would be checked and charged the same fee as though it were a regular bag. I also noted the standard carry-on legal size guide was somehow shortened to no longer than 21 1/2 inches long (from the previous 23″), INCLUDING WHEELS AND HANDLES.

route 66

I rummaged through my junk drawer, in search for a measuring tape. As I was measuring my ‘what had always been considered a legal size carry-on’, I discovered that my newest addition to my luggage, my Route 66 carry-on, was an inch and a half higher than now allowed. I called out to my hub to inform him that he had to go back down to the over-crowded locker, and bring up a different carry-on, because I didn’t want any unpleasant surprises at the airport.

Travel day arrived. I was happy to find that our scheduled flight for 9:15am was on time. I awoke at 4:00am and turned on my laptop to verify the plane was leaving on time, before I scurried around with last minute switching of things around between carry-ons, a quick coffee, and got dressed. Before I knew it, two hours had passed and the limo was picking us up at 6:15am. You may be thinking that’s early, three hours before flight time. But I anticipated it would be a hectic transition until boarding the plane. In fact, I was hoping I had given us enough time; twenty minute drive (with no traffic) to airport, and lots of time for line-ups. And line-ups there were!

I thought I’d be one step ahead by doing my web check-in and printing my boarding pass at home, but as it turned out, if you didn’t also print out baggage tags, you had to stand in some extremely lengthy lines to do so at a kiosk, then go to baggage drop off, or go to assisted check-in line where the line was half of what was doing at kiosk. I opted for the latter; what seemed like the lesser of the two evils.

The Air Canada zones were mobbed. I suspected there were many stranded passengers from the previous two days delays and cancellations. There we were, smack in the midst.

After the nice Air Canada check-in lady told us to have a nice flight and to go to U.S. customs, then to baggage drop-off. The usual protocol turned into a very lengthy exercise.

Normally, it was a three minute stroll to U.S. customs. But we had to take our bags about a half-mile down the airport to what seemed like a holding area. We weren’t allowed to go to customs at that point. The area was so crowded, and there were gated walkways patrolled by boarding pass checkers. They were only calling passengers by boarding times. We were asked to take a seat until our flight time was called.



“Are you kidding me?” I mumbled to myself as I surveyed what had to be at least a couple of hundred people waiting for their time to be called.

When I arrived there it was 6:50am, and they were only letting flights cross through departing at 8:50am. I pulled my husband out of the view of the boarding pass checkers, and tried to stand inconspicuously behind a big sign, keeping close to the walkway because there was no way I was going to be in another huge line to customs when our flight was called.

I was asked a few times to take a seat when the checkers glanced my way, but they were so busy turning people away, they didn’t reinforce their instructions to us, so we remained in our quick getaway spot.

About an hour later, around 7:50am, they finally called for the 9:15am flights to pass through customs. Hub and I were 2nd in line. Once in line, we stood another ten minutes until the entrance was opened, and then the walk to customs turned out to be another half mile back to where we originally checked in to go to customs.

We had to pass through another kiosk to swipe our passports and take our mugshots before proceeding to a customs agent for interrogation before we could drop off our bags. By this time I was feeling quite bitchy.

Yay, finally dropped off bags, and off to security line. Yes, I know the drill, I wanted to say as I smiled at the security checker. We unpacked, undressed, repacked, redressed, and finally we were on our way to our gate.


I stopped for a coffee so I could eat my breakfast I had in my purse—of which I had to show the customs agent; a flaxseed and corn wrap with chopped egg. Then I made one more stop. I stopped to get us our usual 500 ml bottle of water to have on the plane. The water that replaced the two half filled bottles we had to toss at security. “That will be $8.49,” the cheery girl at the cash said. I laughed out loud as I added my usual two cents about how I feel about being ripped off.

I said, “Are you kidding me?” As if I was really surprised that I’d be paying for a bottle of water almost the same as what a beer costs. Done ranting, I shoved my bottles of water in my purse and trekked about another half mile to my gate. No joke!

We just made it to the gate at the requested boarding time. By then I felt as though I’d run a marathon, lifted weights, and had put in a day’s work. Our flight took off on time. I sat in my cramped seat and wrote this post as we lifted off to the west.


Note: I’d like to proudly add that after traveling to so many places through the years and struggling with overweight luggage (my weakness) that I’ve learned the tricks of the trade and this trip, I successfully managed to be within the guidelines, without being stopped by the airlines going, and without being stopped by Canada customs on my return. For those of you who don’t know how many times I’ve been stopped in the past, this was a major feat. And because of the many issues I’ve encountered through my travels, they were the inspiration for my new upcoming book, Have Bags, Will Travel. A humorous book of tales about some of the places I’ve been to, and incidents that occurred with me and my bags on those trips.


The Do’s and Don’ts of #Writing a Book #Blurb – Nicholas Rossis


Writing the Blurb for our books, as small as the task may seem, involves a lot of components. I have shared a link here to an article posted by Nicholas Rossis, who shares some terrific information on what it takes to write a good blurb.


Writing a Book Blurb

By far, the weakest part of many self-published books is the synopsis*. Writing a decent blurb is an art form totally separate from writing a book.Read more below:

Conflicted Hearts: Daughter’s Quest for Solace from Emotional Guilt


I was pleasantly surprised to find a review of my book Conflicted Hearts on memoir writer’s Sherrey Meyer’s page.


Memoir writing is a very personal style of writing. We write from our souls and from our own vantage point about how we dealt with our surroundings, and what we felt resulted from the situations.


It’s a very gratifying feeling for a memoir writer to see her works shared by others, especially a fellow memoir writer. Thank you Sherrey for sharing your reading my book and sharing your thoughts.


I eagerly await Sherrey’s publication of her memoir, which she is currently in the process of titling. Her story also deals with the volatile relationship between her and her mother.

Conflicted Hearts Cover SMALL revised


Read Sherrey’s review below:



Imagine feeling frustrated and powerless in a situation you’re desperate to resolve. When you’re a child, that angst multiplies immensely because you are only that–a child. You have no power to speak out about what you’re feeling, and neither are you permitted to ask questions that might soothe your inner turmoil, because the cause of your dilemmas are adult matters that apparently shouldn’t concern you. ~ D.G. KayeConflicted Hearts

At the beginning of Chapter 8 of Conflicted Hearts , the same chapter from which the above quote is taken, D.G. Kaye writes the following:

We are the products of our parents. How can they teach us what they didn’t know?

Likely, these words resonate with more than one reader with parents from the same generation as Kaye’s.

The author’s fluid writing style and storyteller’s voice gives the reader a sense of sitting down over a steaming cup of coffee or tea with a friend. The friend begins to tell you what life was like for her as a child. You sit in disbelief, wondering how this positive, strong, loving woman lived through the parenting received at the mind and hands of her mother.

Yet, our author and friend lives with a guilt burdening her for far too long. This is the skin she wants to shed–the skin of her guilt feelings. It appears to this reader nothing has been D.G. Kaye’s fault with respect to her mother and her mother’s behavior. The guild is just another layer applied like frosting on a cake. Only this isn’t frosting. It isn’t sweet, and it leaves an acid taste in your mouth.

D.G. Kaye is not ashamed nor abashed about telling her story and sharing it with those willing to read. Her truthful memories will unfasten for others the doors to walk through to the other side of life. Life filled with love, happiness, and respect.

Thank you to the author for the gift of her words.

My Recommendation:

I highly recommend this book for anyone who lived through an emotionally and verbally abusive childhood, one like D.G. Kaye’s. Remember, you are not the one at fault, and reading Kaye’s memoir will help you understand that.


Source: Conflicted Hearts: Daughter’s Quest for Solace from Emotional Guilt