What It's Like to Have a Colonoscopy (again)

I can't believe it's been three years already.


It seems like just yesterday that awoke in confused fog from my last colonoscopy and, in my incoherent haze, vowed to get a dragon tattoo on my face. Now it's three years later, my face is a blank slate, and so is my colon.  In case you ever face a colonoscopy (or had one and have blocked out the details) here's what it looks like:




2 p.m. (the day before):


I'm not allowed to eat today, and am developing a hunger migraine and a heaping portion of dread and self-pity. As my concentration starts to fade and I count down the minutes until I can go home, I think about the people in olden times who fasted to get God's attention. I consider them all nuts.  Ooohhh, nuts would be good right now. 




I'm not among those who believe that God hands out extra favors for ceremonial self-sacrifice, but it hits me that I ought to say a few extra prayers today just in case.


3:30
I'm home from work early and run to the store for last minute essentials before the um, fun starts. I take my prescribed anti-nausea pill and buckle up, loosely, because I will need to unbuckle frequently. I call my mom, who advises me to buy adult diapers.  I refuse. I might be blogging about my colon cleanse, but I still have a little bit of pride. A few minutes later, I say good bye.


"Don't forget the diapers," she says.


4 p.m.
A gallon jug of chalky, vaguely lemon flavored yellow mix sits on the counter, which represents the worst part of the colonoscopy experience: You have to empty your bowels out in advance so the camera can take pictures of your insides. This is how I will celebrate Cinco de Mayo this year. I pick a festive green plastic glass. The first glass of the stuff actually doesn't taste so bad.


4:35
The third glass isn't good, but it's not the taste itself that bothers me.  Sitting down and drinking an entire gallon of anything would be miserable.


5:00
The long night begins.


5:15
The worst part of the experience isn't going to the bathroom constantly. It's that you literally get 30 seconds warning, at most, for each trip. I change to sweatpants. It's still better than diapers.


6:00
I'm feeling drained. Literally. And this drink mix tastes like liquid limestone, and getting worse as I get  to the, err, bottom of the container.  "The mix is more palatable," the label says, "if consumed very cold." How comforting.


7:00
I feel empty inside. Which is a good thing.


8:00
Another awful part of a colonoscopy nobody adequately warns you about: even after your system is empty, the cleansing liquid takes its time to work its way through your system, in a million urgent but incremental doses. "It will all work its way out in the end," I think.


9:00
The good news is that I'm not remotely hungry anymore.


11:00
I'm ready for bed, but hang out for a few minutes to make sure it's safe to go to bed. The worst is over, but I don't want to go to bed too soon and prove my mom's advice to be correct.


6:00 a.m.
I slept through the night! But it's time for a bathroom break.


8:00
Liz drives to the doctor. I bring a change of clothes and a towel, just in case we hit traffic, but we get to the medical center just in time.


9:00
We arrive at the doctor's office:


"I'm here to check in," I say.
"Colonoscopy and endoscopy?"
"Colonoscopy? I thought I was getting a flu shot."
9:05
I'm more nervous about this than I had expected. Due to a family colon cancer history, I've done this once before, but in a new city with no support network, the stakes seem higher if something goes wrong.


9:10
As we wait in the waiting room, they call a fragile-looking elderly man to the back. He shuffles away, almost forgetting to hand his equally fragile-looking wife his glasses. If he can do this, so can I.


9:15
"You didn't shave," Liz says. "That's odd for you."
"I didn't feel like I needed to look good for this."
"Well, the good thing about this place is that they only care about what you look like on the inside,"


9:20
The elderly lady slowly hobbles out of the waiting room into the hall, shuffling forward only three-fourths upright.


"Where's she going?" Liz asks.
"Probably to the bathroom.  Unless there's a party going on somewhere."
"I was just hoping for a cafeteria."
"They don't really encourage eating around here."
9:25
I keep going to the bathroom. I think it's nerves as much as the laxative.


9:30
They call me to the back. I have to put on the gown, which is nearly impossible to tie in the back. On the bright side, that doesn't really matter...


9:50
The nurses are really nice, obsessing about things like whether I like the radio channel or need a different pillow. But when someone is about to stick cameras into both ends of me until they meet in the middle, these matters seem somewhat trivial.




10:05
It's alarming that I'm chatting with my doctor in the operating room and am still wide awake, following instructions to roll onto my left side. I try not to freak out about the reality of what's about to happen to me, but this is alarming. They are NOT sticking anything into an orifice while I can tell the difference. They put a hose into my mouth to keep it (my mouth) open for the tube with the camera, and I finally start to feel woozy.




"Is the anesthesia starting yet. I think maybe I'm starting to feel it..." Finally, me and my anxieties drift off to sleep.


11:10
"Time to wake up, Andrew," says a female voice I don't recognize.
"Any polyps?"
"No, just a few issues with your endoscopy that your doctor will explain."


The voice disappears.


11:15
"Wake up," Liz says. Your heartbeat is really low."
"Yeah, it's always that way.
"No, it's 47. The alarm is going off. Your heart needs to beat."
"Oh, Ok," I mumble. "I'll try to think of something stressful. But, did you hear? No polyps this time."


We slowly walked to car and drove home, where I had the best tasting toast of all time.


But I still didn't get a dragon tattoo.