Up Periscope!

Up Periscope

[originally published on my old blog, circa 2006]

Hey, remember my first bout with diverticulitis? So did my new gastroenterologist, and to further examine the problem, he recently scheduled my very first colonoscopy. Want to know how it went? Well, buckle up my little health-conscious blogaroos as I take you boldly where no man, woman or gerbil has gone before: UP MY COLON!

So the whole process starts Sunday morning at 7 am, or the last time I’m allowed to have a solid meal. From there on out, it’s water, ginger ale, lemon Italian ice and chicken broth (which I actually now have acquired a taste for as a result). Both my parents have a family history of colon cancer, as does my wife, who has undergone this procedure numerous times, so I am very aware of what’s going to happen. I’m prepared for the worst.

Most of the day goes by fairly innocently—I go grocery shopping, do laundry, watch the Jets lose another game, fret over my two fantasy football teams. All the normal Sunday stuff. At 7 pm, after 12 hours of fasting, I am required to imbibe the first of two Fleet Phosphate of Soda drinks (ginger flavored) to . . . cleanse the area that is to be examined. The cleansing usually begins about an hour or so after choking down the salty concoction.

So I chug the nasty stuff, say goodnight to the kids, and go to the living room to watch “NFL Primetime” and wait. After an hour and a half, my wife pokes her head into the room, like a wary villager peeking up at Mt. Vesuvius. “Anything yet?” she asks. I shrug. “Don’t worry, it’ll happen,” she says, suppressing the smile of someone that’s on the other side of it for once. “Just keep a good book handy.”

Two words for when it hits: liquid. magma.

I’ll spare you the rest of the details other to say that it’s a less-than-restful night as I’m up a few times to continue the cleansing process. The sun finally rises, I get the kids off to school, then come back home for dose #2 of the Roto Rooter. Second verse, same as the first. Making the most of my time sitting around, I finish reading H.G. Wells’ original War of the Worlds—a lot different than either of the movies or even the famous broadcast of the radio play, for what it’s worth. True science fiction, and quite the page turner. Some day I plan on re-reading it under different, more relaxed circumstances.

Anyway, “lunch” time rolls around. I chow down a couple of steaming cups of chicken bouillon broth and an Italian ice, topping it all off with a ginger ale. I then run back to the bathroom a few more times, since my body rejects the crazy notion of keeping any of it in my system for more than 15 minutes. As I pack a pb&j sandwich, chocolate chip cookies and orange juice for afterward, I catch myself drooling a la Homer Simpson . . .(Mmm … solid food… ahhhh)

My innards now emptier than a Tom DeLay kissing booth, my sister picks me up at about 1:30 and it’s off to the doctor’s office. We arrive in New Haven without incident, park and head up to the office. When we arrive, there’s about 20 people milling about the waiting room.

“Wow,” I mutter. “I didn’t realize these things were so popular. Must be a California thing.” With the number of people waiting, I have visions of my last trip to the hospital regarding this condition, where I waited over three hours in the emergency room. I go up to the window and give the receptionist my name. She looks up and down the list, and after a few moments, it’s clear that I’m not on it. “I’m in for a colonoscopy,” I whisper to her, hoping that helps.

“OH, COLONOSCOPY,” she says in a voice that seems to alert the entire waiting room. “That’s in the other office, down the hall and to the right.”

I thank her, try not to make eye contact with anyone, and go to the other waiting room. Fortunately, there’s no one waiting there, and as a matter of fact, I am on the fast track to ScopeVille. “We’re ahead of schedule, so you should be out of here pretty quickly,” says the nurse. “You’re the end of our day.” [For the record: I don’t think she meant to say it like that, but I swear, it’s exactly what she said.]

I say bye to my smirking sister. The nurse leads me to a small examining room, where she takes my blood pressure, heart rate and clothes, and leaves me with a johnny coat, hospital socks and white terrycloth robe, which she tells me not to put on, but to just drape over my shoulders. I feel like Elvis at the nursing home when I’m ready, and a short time from now, I’ll be as a high as the King, too. But first, she inserts an IV in my hand and fastens it in place with what seems to be a lot of surgical tape. But that’s better than having it slip out during the procedure and spraying a few pints of me about the room, I suppose.

The doctor appears at the door and gives me the pregame rundown of what’s going to happen. He seems fairly nonplussed about inserting a long metal cable in my colon to search for intestinal treasure, so I guess I shoudn’t sweat it, either. It sounds as easy as jumping rope, which presents me with a disturbing mental image involving the doctor, the scope and my butt. (Let’s just hope there isn’t any double-dutch action.)

Another nurse shows up and tells me that it’s time. She grabs my backpack with the camera in it and my rolling IV, and takes off down the hall, forcing me to run after her while valiantly trying to keep my Elvis robe on and the back of my johnny coat closed. I enter the procedure room, which is a quiet, softly lit space, like where you can get a spa treatment—I wonder if it’s it too late to get the Swedish massage instead? I expect to see one of those giant half-mile spools of industrial cable in one corner, but the scope apparatus itself isn’t quite that imposing. There are also two video monitors here, including a large one for me to watch. [“Tonight, on the big screen: Journey to the Center of ME!, in high definition”] Overall, it’s a nice relaxing environment, hardly the sorta place you’d expect them to shove a camera up your ass.

Buy hey, that’s what I’m here for. As I get on the gurney and they start hooking all sorts of things to me—including the machine that goes ping—I ask if I can take a picture of the room. The nurses look at me sort of strange, and ask me to repeat the question. I explain that I have a camera in my bag, and the doctor sorta shakes his head, says not to worry he’ll give me a picture when it’s over. Obviously, this isn’t open to much debate as the nurse immediately hooks something to my IV and says, “You should feel a warm sensation in your hand in a moment.” I do, and then . . .

[*insert MTV-like rapid-fire montage with images of room, the nurses, screen shots of my colon, the doctor and . . . CHARLES NELSON REILLY?!!*]

I blink my eyes and am in an empty recovery room.

Suddenly the doctor is standing there with a picture. “It looks good,” he says, admiring the image as if he created it during art class and is going to tack it up on his refrigerator. “No polyps, no evidence of cancer, a little diverticulitis. Keep drinking lots of water and eating plenty of fiber. See you in five years.” He seemingly vanishes into thin air.

I blink again and there’s an elderly gentleman on the bed across from me, staring at me, smiling, eyes glazed. A male nurse comes by to take my IV out. He starts pulling the tape off slowly, and as anesthesized as I am, I can still feel it. I nod to him and say, “Just rip it off.” He does. Gauging by the large patch of hair missing on the back of my hand, I should’ve screamed, but don’t. He looks apologetic, then scurries away.

I blink yet again, the elderly guy is gone and now another nurse is there telling me to put my clothes on, it’s time to go. I somehow dress myself, grab my souvenir flume-ride photo, and am led out of the recovery room. Next we’re on the elevator, and then in front of the building where my sister is waiting for me in her Jeep. I get in, and within 14 seconds, I am tearing into the pb&j sandwich like Star Jones attacking a Christmas ham. I swallow the four cookies in three bites, then chug the oj. “That whole procedure went fast,” I say between bites. “It felt like a half hour.” My sister glances at the clock in the dashboard, which says 4:15. “More like two hours,” she says. I think I tell her all about it, even go so far as holding up the photo and saying, “Look ma, a cavity.” By the same token, I may have just sat there and drooled on myself.

We get back to my house, my sister leaves and I crawl into bed. My wife comes home, I say something that must’ve been coherent enough for her to think it went well. I collapse back to sleep.

Suddenly, she and kids are back in the room. I look at the clock. “7:30! Holy crap!” I cry, leaping out of bed. “Come on, we’re going to be late for school!”

“Relax,” she and the kids laugh. “It’s night time. The boys just wanted to say good night.”

“Ohh,” I say. We put them to bed, and then I wander out to the living room. I flip on the TV, then proceed to burn a grilled cheese sandwich. I eat it anyway . . . because it’s SOLID food. I look at the pictures of my colon.

(That’s my spanking clean small intestine on the top left.
I have no idea what in the name of Joe Willie Namath the other things are.)

Yeah, graphic images aside, modern medicine in the hands of trained professionals is pretty freakin’ amazing. I can’t wait until I get to pass the kidney stone that my gastroenterologist told me that I have, too!

Ah, but that’s another indignity for another day . . . . you all will have to wait for that!