Warning to you more delicate readers and those of a sensitive nature. This entry contains references to drugs, fecal matter, violence to the intestines, but unfortunately no reference at all to sex.The year I turned 50, my life fell into chaos. Marriage disintegrated, career tanked, children went bonkers. So when my doctor mentioned that the AMA recommends a colonoscopy at age 50, I ignored her. I didn’t need one more thing – pardon the expression -- stuck up my butt. Same the next year and the next. But this year, I decided I was ready for the big probe. Life was more settled, and the recent death of a dharma sister was more than a little shove. Gail had died of colon cancer and as I helped prepare her body for the service – washing her thin, thin legs that had once held her up on her windsail – I promised myself that I would get the test. Damn, I don’t even let my kids miss a dental appointment.
Everyone assured me that the preparation was the worst part. On Tuesday, in a 4-hour period, I drank 4 liters of what tasted like polluted ocean water, feeling my stomach bloat and bloat until I thought I would puke up the stuff. Finally, release out the other end. My bottom burned. Preparation also required a 24-hour fast, which I actually looked forward to, hoping to experience a yoga high or a sensation of lightness and purity. Nope, I felt heavy and sloshing, like those miserable occasions when I’ve swallowed mouthfuls of the Pacific on my boogie-board. The only enlightening moment was the realization that I am a whiny, miserable patient; a spoiled baby who doesn’t like to miss a meal. At 3 am, I woke up nauseated and thirsty with a powerful headache, and spent the hours until morning tossing and groaning in bed.
At 9:30 am, I arrived at the outpatient surgery center, filled out forms and followed the nurse to my bed. The experience felt both strange and so familiar to me. I’ve been through so many doctor and surgical visits with my friend Nancy, but I’ve always been the “patient’s friend,” the name on the admitting slip as “person to contact in case of emergency.” Now, I – who have been blessed with great health; this was my first surgical experience – was the one slipping on the gown that ties in the back and the little booties, the one tucking my hair into the cap with the smiley face pattern. I had the odd sensation that I was dressing for Halloween.
In the bed next to mine, separated by only a thin curtain was one of those happy, jovial patients. He kept making the same joke in the same way. He told the same joke to every nurse, doctor and orderly who looked his way. He repeated the joke when his wife came in to visit and then she told the joke to a doctor. The joke went like this:
“I thought about putting a piece of paper between my butt cheeks. And on the paper, I wanted to write, `If you’re reading this, you’re performing the wrong surgery on the wrong person.’
Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
Didn’t one of the nurses think to tell him to shut the hell up because several people within ear shot are about to have their colons probed via the butt?
I admit that I was happy to hear the buzzing of an electric razor on the other side of the curtain. His surgery required shaving of the pubic area. His pubes will be growing in itchy and red when my colonoscopy is mere memory
That's Katie Couric -- not me -- smiling for her colonoscopy.
My head continued pounding. I didn’t want to complain to anyone because I have this fear of medical personnel, of being tagged as the annoying, problem patient. I have images of what they can do to you while you are “under” – the surgical equivalent of the chef who spits in the soup of the finicky diner. Please, please let them like me, and if they don’t like me, at least let them NOT not like me.
The OR nurse introduced herself, making hard eye contact, which I think she must have learned in some course in patient-nurse relationships. I finally decided to tell her that I had a throbbing headache and felt nauseated. Her smile froze as she said that she’s heard of such side effects of the preparation, but it wasn’t common. My smile froze. Please, please, don’t think I’m a bad patient. Then, she told me about the drugs I’d be getting. I was really looking forward to the drugs. I wasn’t going to be knocked out completely. I’d be in a twilight state. I’d hear everything going on around me. The doctor might ask me to move a certain way; the nurse might ask me to take a deep breath. Twilight state sounded lovely.
At 11 am, she administered the first dose of the fentanyl. At 1:30, I woke up in the recovery room. I bet they could have cut out my kidney and I wouldn’t have felt it. The experience made me feel better about being an organ donor. My surgeon – large in body and large in voice – gave me a thumbs up as he walked past. “Your colon sure has a lot of twists and bends. We really had to get in there. In and out, in and out with the probe. . See ya in 10 years.”
The nurse gave me some apple juice. I threw it up. At home, I slept the rest of the day. This book was not on my nightstand.
