Colonics, My Arse

Alison Crisp signs up for a colonics treatment at the Vietura Clinic in Nusa Dua, Bali

Our eyes locked. Hers had that steely look of determination.  Mine more like a startled dear in the headlights.  A drop of perspiration rolled down my nose and dropped on to my gown.  “One more time,” she said in her heavy Indonesian accent.

Was that a question or a statement I wondered?

I am perched knickerless on a moulded colonics chair with my feet braced and my knees apart.  The therapist’s head is bopping up and down between my knees, she retracts her hand then thrusts forward with a long thin plastic tube in hand.  “Oh, that’s the wrong hole,” I squeak.  “Yes?” she says.  “Oh, definitely,” I say.

“Actually, why don’t you let me insert it,” I squeak again.  “Yes,” she says again.  “Yes,” I say.

She hands over the tube with what I presume is a sigh of relief. I see her cross her fingers – fourth time lucky.

Comfortable? No, not at all!

It’s time to regroup …. I take a deep breath, release it, and insert the tube into my bum.  Hmmm, I think it’s inserted properly?  God it’s uncomfortable.  The tube is the width of my little finger but it feels like I have a sausage roll jammed up my butt.

“Yes?” my companion nods her head enquiringly at me, her hand on a large leaver to my left.  I assume she means “are we ready for take-off”.  “Yes, ready for take-off Houston,” I giggle (I always giggle when I’m nervous).  She glances at me,  not sure about why I’m laughing.  She probably thinks I’m a mad westerner. I giggle again – she may be right.

Her hand still clamped on the colonics leaver she gives me a quick broken English rundown on what to expect. “Look the water, goes in and den out the tube.”  I look up to the partition that holds the filtered water and note with horror that it’s sitting at 25 litres.  “Twenty five litres?  What the…”  My eyebrows raise a notch along with my voice.

“Yes,” my companion agrees.  “Geezus ”  I’m 5ft I in. There is not room for 25 litres.  She continues “the tube … it waste”  she points out the tube that’s attached to the seat I’m perched on.  I guess what goes in must come out and lucky me, I get to watch it evacuate.

My eyes dart nervously to the large colonics leaver as she pushes the throttle.  Ooooooooohhhh nooooo my mind screams as liquid is pumped in to my poop-shoot.  Oooooh,  actually that feels not too bad at all, ticklish even.  This might not be too bad I think relaxing into my seat.

The throttle inches forward …

I notice out the corner of my eye the throttle inching forward ever more.  It’s not long until I start to feel uncomfortable again.  Cramps.  This is apparently quiet normal and my colonics therapist starts to kneed my stomach helping to ease the cramps.  I look up to the water tank – only 24 litres to go.

The cramps intensify as the water continues to pump in.  The water level registers 1.5 litres down.

I’m very uncomfortable and my stomach looks like it belongs to the Michelin man.

Level: 1.75 litres.   I feel sweat breakout on my forehead, more cramps, burping, queasiness.  I hit the 2 litres intake measure and think I’m going to be sick.

My stomach starts to heave.  My eyes scan the room. There is nowhere to be sick.  I eye up my en-suite a simple four steps from where I sit. I have a terrible vision of myself trying to make it to the toilet to be sick but falling flat on my face.  There I am like a pink starfish sprawled face down with my medical gown gaping open and a clear tube sticking out my bum.  Okay, that’s not a good option I think.   Panic sets in as I burp and heave again.

“Need you to stop,” I gasp at my therapist.  “Yes?” she says.  YES F___ing, Yes I feel like screaming at her as the sweat runs down my back.  “Okay, you have enough?  Only two litres,” she says with disappointment.  “Abort, abort,” I yell.

Whoosh …. it’s almost over!

To my immense relief she pulls the throttle back.  I’m terrified to move in case I explode in a gush of filtered water and faeces.  The therapist returns to my side and with a quick flick removes the tube _ whoosh.

Oh God, there is a tsunami coming out of my nether region and I am sitting in a room with a complete stranger next to me shitting myself to death. Boy does it feel good.

I gaze in wonder at the waste tube pumping its little heart out. I recall the elephant and monkey joke. Even in Bali it seems you can never find a monkey with a cork when you need one.

And if it isn’t bad enough to be crapping yourself in front of a complete stranger I start to fart and splutter-like a choked up scooter.

Oh the shame, the embarrassment.  Please God, just suck me down the waste pipe too I beg.  But no,  God is not listening, or I suspect he is doubled over laughing his head off at my misfortune.   On and on my bum bubbles and shushes like an over-zealous barista on a busy Saturday morning.

Finally, I splutter to an end,  my dignity long gone.  My therapist un-naturally cheery concludes I am done and points me to the en-suite as she lunges to the door for a breath of fresh air and freedom.

Finished I am.  I slide forward and plant my feet on the ground and stand on shaky limbs.  I shuffle and squelch toward the en-suite grateful to still be alive.  I look to the right and eye up the toilet.  Hmm think I’m okay, I turn left instead and head into the shower.

Don’t drop the soap!

And just when I thought things were starting to look up I drop the soap.  Without thinking I bend over to retrieve it, and there, in my little safe cubicle I unleash the mother of all farts.  Or should I say shart because I hate to admit it but farts do sometimes have lumps.

It took seven days before my stomach settled down.  It could well take me a lifetime to recover from the colonics experience. But apparently according to all the medical evidence I am much healthier for the experience.