Thursday, 01 March 2007

• My Operations: My Colonoscopy

  

  Most heterosexual males would probably agree with me that one of the biggest fears faced by man is having something rammed up his butt. The area "back there" is off limits, a personal area, one we cannot see (and usually don't wish to), one we do not want to think about, and one which sometimes causes nothing but a big pain in the a**.

  We aren't afraid of much, but the fear of anal invasion ranks right at the top. We wince at the thought of the anal probes of innumerable alien spaceships. We are always careful not to drop the soap in prison washrooms. The buttocks is the "other" opening to our manly bodies, and we like it as an exit door, and not the other way around.

  Upon reaching a half century or life, our doctors, armed with medical literature illustrated with smiling seniors in idyllic surroundings (the same kind of images shown on billboards for funeral homes) begin to talk to us about a small invasive procedure, called a colonoscopy, which involves taking photographs and video of the insides of our intestines, in order to insure we haven't developed any cancerous growths or otherwise unwanted obstacles which don't belong inside us and might need to be removed. We listen curtly, shuffling our feet and unknowingly closing our sphincter tight, while the devilish grin of the physician lingers and he prescribes the "small invasive procedure".

  Once upon a time about three years ago, my roommate Cancerboy was simply Joel, a seemingly healthy man of 48, who was having a bit of a problem with constipation. He visited his doctor, explained the problem, and was prescribed a colonoscopy. Since the procedure is accomplished while the patient is knocked out somewhat with anaesthesia, he needs a designated driver to pilot him back home. I'm the roommate, so the job of pilot went to me.

  I dropped Joel off in the waiting room of the "Small Invasive Procedure" ward, and asked how long I had before I needed to pick him up. "Oh, about two hours" came the reply. Just enough time to get a newspaper, and catch a nice lunch  (something Joel hadn't had for over 24 hours previous because one has to fast when experiencing this procedure).  When I returned, the operation had already been terminated, and Joel was groggily waiting in the post op room for his ride to whisk him away. Since Joel had the rest of the day off, I asked him on the ride home if he wanted to stop at a liquor store for beer. He just wanted a pack of cigarettes. He seemed completely lucid to me as he talked about what had just happened as best he could. He didn't really remember the actual procedure, but the doctor who performed it had a consultation with him after it was over. He really wasn't free of the drugs yet, and he didn't really understand that the doctor was telling him they found a large growth in his large intestine. This growth was cancerous and had been growing for almost ten years. When Joel mentioned the word 'chemotherapy' to me, I told him. "Joel, there's only one thing for which a doctor would prescribe chemotherapy, and that's cancer." Poor Joel had been told he was now "Cancerboy" and he was too stoned to realize it. Later that day, when the anaesthesia had worn off, he realized it. In quick succession, he had to have the growth removed, which meant a weeklong stay in the hospital, and he began the first of what has now become three chemotherapies, in order to battle back the cancer.

  I turned 50 while Joel was undergoing his first round of chemotherapy. I asked my doctor during one of my regular checkups if I needed a colonoscopy, and he told me I didn't need one yet. He's my doctor, so I listened to him, although most of the people I know who are past 50 told me their doctors immediately prescribed a colonoscopy when they turned 50. Mind you, I was in no hurry. I had other problems, and what I don't know won't hurt me....yet.

  Dr, Mackenzie was a smart doctor and a nice guy. The next time I went to see him he wasn't available. A year and a half later he died of complications caused by cancer. I don't know if it was colon cancer or not. My latest doctor, Dr. Huoang, was only an intern when I first met him, and after looking through my foot thick medical history, he remembered me, or at least remembered his signature on whatever medical report on which he was involved. He's treated me for the past two years. This year, since I turn 54 in May, nearly a half a decade after I'm supposed to have the small invasive procedure in the first place, I asked him bluntly if I should be given a colonoscopy. He didn't waste any time in prescribing the procedure, which was scheduled for early February.

  This time, Cancerboy would serve as my designated driver. He has his chemotherapies on Wednesdays, and  I scheduled the colonoscopy for a Wednesday. Then Joel remembered that he only had his chemotherapies every other Wednesday. We finally were able to agree on a compatible day, and that day was the last day of February, 2007, at 7:30 in the morning.

  The colonoscopy itself is not frightening, even if you do "feel" it, which I didn't. What is scary is what the doctors have you do in "preparation" for the procedure. I received in the mail a sheet of "preparatory instructions". Basically, since a small camera is to be inserted through the anus up into the large intestine in order to look around, you need to be as clean inside as is humanly possible, so the "preparations" in order to clean you out involve taking large amounts of laxatives. I couldn't eat solid food from midnight on the day before the procedure. I couldn't drink alcoholic beverages. At noon the day before the procedure, I began taking the "Fleet's phospho-soda" which is a saline solution mixed with water. One tablespoon in six-eight ounces of water every 15 minutes until one little bottle is used up, and then at 6pm, I had to repeat the procedure. I thought originally I would spend the day before the actual colonoscopy at work, but my more experienced roommate told me it would  be far better to take the day off, since as soon as I began the preparations, I would probably spend a lot of time in the bathroom.

  He wasn't kidding.

  I took off work at noon on Tuesday, and all my workmates wished me well. I drove home and opened the front door in time to hear the phone ring, right about 5 minutes after noon. It was a nurse at the medical center. She wanted to confirm my appointment for 7:00am the next morning. "Are you taking your preparation?" she asked. "That's why I'm at home", I replied. As soon as I hung up, I went into the bathroom and prepared my first phospho soda solution. It tastes a lot like salt water, which is basically what it is, and while Cancerboay swears he hated the taste, it didn't bother me so much. After imbibing, I went to my computer for what seemed like scant minutes, and then I had to imbibe some more of the liquid. I didn't even get to the third drink before I had to go, and go pretty bad. After finishing my toilette, I downed the third drink, finishing the first bottle. I wouldn't wish what happened for the next few hours on a dog.

  Frequently, I have found myself suffering from diarrhea. I sometimes don't go into work in the mornings because there is only one toilet for the men at work, and no urinal, so if I needed to go and someone was in the restroom, I would be "sh*t out of luck". After three or four "episodes" my rear can hurt pretty bad. After two hours of nearly 10-15 minute on the clock intervals of sitting on the can following the "preparation", I was hurting pretty bad. One wonders just how much "sh*t" one's body contains. As soon as I thought it might be over, I had to begin the preparation all over again at 6pm. Joel had a good time laughing at my pain when he came home from work that evening.

  He's had to go through this three times. "Welcome to my world" he slyly winked.

  I had to take four ducolyls (sp) a solid laxative, before going to bed. I didn't get much sleep. However, I flushed myself out pretty clean, and by the morning, I didn't have to go to the bathroom at all. I tired, for good measure, but absolutely nothing came out. Finally.

  Cancerboy drove me to the clinic, and we walked back to the "ambulatory surgery" waiting room, which is where I had my cataract surgery last year. Even though it was not yet 7am when we arrived, and I had to ring a bell on the counter to receive service, there was already another patient in the waiting room. The counter nurse appeared, asked me if I had taken my "preparations", and had Joel sign a paper designating him the driver. They don't want to take chances. Joel asked when I would be finished, in a reverse deja vu moment from when I drove him in for his first colonoscopy, and the nurse replied that I would be finished by 8:30am. "Good", I said. "He has to go in for his chemotherapy later this afternoon."

  Joel left for breakfast, and I began to feel quite hungry. I half heartedly read some periodicals from last October in the waiting room, and then my name was called. The attending nurse shoved a large plastic bag in my hand, and asked if I needed to go to the bathroom. (I tried again, but I was "flushed" already) I removed my pants, shoes, and socks, and lay down on a hospital bed. She attached the IV for the drugs to my right hand and one of those blood pressure devices over my left arm. In short order, I was introduced to the anaesthesiologist and the doctor.

  "Will I be able to watch this?" I asked.

  The doctor said the drugs work differently on different people, and maybe I would be lucid enough to watch, but I might pass out. I was able to see the television screen where the "movie" of the camera's "small invasive" trip would be shown, and the nurse directed me to turn over on my left side. This is the side with my hip replacement, and my leg hurts incredibly when I attempt to sleep on this side. I tried to tell this to the nurse, and positioned my left leg as straight as I could. My butt was bare in the breeze, and the next thing I know I'm flat on my back and my hospital bed is being wheeled into the post op room. I didn't know I had missed nearly a half hour of time, while the procedure was occurring, and I thought I was being taken into the operating room, not the post op room.

  I was a bit woozy, but didn't feel drugged. In about five or ten minutes time, I finally noticed a clock on the wall, and it was almost 9am. I called out. "When are they going to start?" A nurse appeared at my bedside. "You're already finished. This is the post op area." I looked around. I was the only one in the room, lying on one of about 12 beds, all the others empty.

  "Are you sure?" I questioned. I didn't feel bad at all. The area around my bottom didn't hurt any more than usual. I was told to dress, and although I nearly fell off the bed when reaching down to tie my shoes, all in all I felt no worse for wear than usual. As soon as I finished dressing, I walked out to the waiting room, where I met Cancerboy, and another nurse.

  The slightly small invasive procedure had turned up two small polyps, which had been removed, and were on their way to pathology, where a biopsy will be performed. I am to call in two weeks time to hear whether or not I really have anything to worry about. I wonder if the polyps would have been smaller three years ago when I thought I should have had this procedure originally.

  Cancerboy drove me home. This trip is the first time in almost a year I'd ridden in his new Honda Accord, and it's a nice ride. Lethargic procrastinator that he is, he has never even played a CD on his six disc changer. "I listen to the radio" he told me. As soon as I got home, Joel had to turn around and go in for his chemotherapy, and I put on a DVD to watch, but fell asleep, and napped for most of the day. Then I went out to dinner and had a nice meal with a large Chinese Chicken Salad and some pasta, and this morning everything is back to normal.

  My boss at work tells me most people have a couple of polyps in their intestines, so I probably don't have anything to worry about  concerning the biopsy, the results of which I'll find out in two weeks.

  My advice. If you're past 50, by all means ask your doctor to schedule one of these small invasive procedures. It's like changing the oil on your car every 3000 miles. A bit of a pain in the a**, but if the results show that something preventative has to be done, the earlier this happens the better. I know there is no big  ball of cancer in me at least.

  I forgot to ask for any 8x10 glossies of the procedure.

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