Colonoscopy: One Of Life's Joys

A letter arrived bearing the return address of a gastroenterologist.  Never a sign of good news.  With trepidation, I slowly opened the envelope fearing the worst.  Reading the first line of the letter I felt my knees wobble.  It was time for a colonoscopy, the medical equivalent of water boarding.

My last procedure was five years ago, but the memories were permanently etched in my brain. The gruesome colon preparation.  Hours glued to the toilet.  The open flap at the back of my hospital gown.  The humiliation of others peering at my backside.  And those are the good memories.

For the uninitiated, a colonoscopy is a procedure to evaluate the inside of the colon or large bowel.  A gastroneterologist exams the bowel with a colonscope, a four-foot long, flexible tube about the thickness of your finger. There is a camera and a light mounted on the tip of the scope.

All that gear is inserted into the rectum and through the colon.  I know.  That image alone causes your cheeks to quiver.  (Note: If you are eating while reading this, my apologies.)   If there is any good news, it is that you are sedated during the approximately 30-to-60 minute procedure.

When I called the doctor about my appointment, a nurse explained that the preparation had been improved.  No more gallon jugs of foul tasting swill to gulp, she assured me.  I convinced myself it would be like drinking a cork-tainted Bordeaux.  An oenophile might blanch but I could do it.   

I scheduled my colonoscopy many months in the future hoping the American Cancer Society would decree that the procedure was obsolete.  A scientist had created a smartphone app that could examine your bowel just by waving the device over your body.  I believe in miracles.

But the day before the procedure arrived with no news of a scientific breakthrough. The instructions made it clear that fasting was required for 24 hours prior to the colonoscopy.  No solids.  Just jiggly Jello and clear liquid broth.  I swallowed so much Jello my blue eyes turned lime green.

At 5 p.m., I stared at the package of powder to be mixed with water.  The moment of truth.  I stirred the witch's brew in a glass and raised it to my lips.  With each gulp, my taste buds were under assault.  It was like drinking whale-polluted ocean water with extra salt added.

My stomach began gurgling almost immediately.  The noise was deafening after a few minutes.  I raced to the bathroom, lugging copies of John Grisham's entire collection of novels.  I was going to be in there a while.  Too bad the room wasn't soundproofed.

At 2 a.m., I swigged a final dose to start another colon cleanse.  Arriving at the outpatient facility, I looked like I was the loser of a mixed martial arts match.  I was hungry, sleepy and dopey. Think Cinderella's friends.  I was ushered into a tiny, curtained room and handed a hospital gown.

I pulled on the gown as I listened to other victims' moans.  One lady on the gurney next to me foolishly announced she wanted no anesthesia for the procedure.  I tugged at the sleeve of the nurse at my side.  "I'll take hers and mine," I whispered.  "And bring me a sleeping pill."

I was wheeled outside the vault-like rooms where the colonoscopy exams are preformed.  There was a line of gurneys with people eyeing each other.  Everyone in that holding pattern was praying for an eleventh hour reprieve.  Then a nurse fetched me and glided me into the Colonoscopy Cavern.

"Turn on your side and push out your tush," she instructed.  All I could think about was target practice at a gun range.  I hope the gastro guy found the bulls eye.  The anesthesiologist arrived with the drug cocktail.  The next think I remember was waking up in recovery with Dianna by my side.

She smiled at me as I emerged from my fog.  My stomach growled back at her.  My last meal had been more than 30 hours ago.  All I could think about was breakfast. I have no idea what perfume Dianna was wearing, but I swear it was Eau de Bacon. 

Once the doctor appeared bedside he pronounced my colon a fine specimen.  I felt relieve but I hallucinated that I glimpsed a waffle in his pants pocket.  As I left the outpatient facility, I was struck how painless the invasive procedure was.  If only some genius could think of a better prep solution.

And then I had a brainstorm.  Why couldn't patients chugalug a couple of blenders of prune puree?  It wouldn't taste so awful and it would produce the same results.  I have written letters to a couple of medical groups.  So far none have responded.  My guess is the medical profession prefers torture.