Channeling My Inner Katie Couric

Yeah, I'm going there. 

If you've read other posts from Single, you may know that last fall my father was diagnosed with Stage 3 Colorectal cancer.  He's going to be fine, and has just a couple months left of chemotherapy, which according to his oncologist is 100% preventative, to ensure that he never gets this type of cancer again.  As such, Dad has been badgering me to get a colonoscopy.  (I've also had some minor symptoms that had me concerned of which I'll spare you the details.)

The agony of the appointment.  A couple of weeks ago, after taking my mother to the doctor for a follow up after her toe surgery (my life has been full of doctor's visits of late, mostly for my parents, and I am glad to do it), we went by the gastroenterologist's office to make an appointment for my Big Day.  I had called the evening before, but the receptionist told me I had to go in person to make the appointment. Great.

So I walk in, and go to the window and state my reason for being there.  The receptionist tells me she needs to see my prescription, which I had gotten months ago but had subsequently lost in the black hole of the Scion.  Can't you just call and they'll fax it over?

No.

Fortunately, my doctor's office was right next door to the gastroenterologist's, so I ran next door, told them what I needed, obtained a copy, and ran back, passing a pharmaceutical rep's big bag of Panera for the office staff.  I was tempted to pilfer a bit of a baguette because I was starving, but I soldiered on. I gave the receptionist my script, license, and insurance, and she gave me a novel to complete while waiting to be called.  Yeah, you can't just make an appointment, you have to be interviewed.  As if people are dying to have colonoscopies and they need to keep out the riff-raff.  Thirty minutes later, after listening to my mother's and my own stomachs growling in concert, I was called in to see the nurse, answered her questions, and walked out with an appointment time, a lengthy packet of instructions and questionnaires, and a prescription for The Dreaded Drink.  

Couldn't hardly wait.  About a week before the procedure, I stopped eating meat.  If I was going to do this, I wanted the doctor to be able to get as clear of a picture as possible.  This entire past week, the procedure has been on my mind... while I packed my things, while I moved my things into my new place... and especially when I dropped off the prescription for The Dreaded Drink.  Everyone would say to me, I've heard the prep is the worst part.  Yeah, I've heard that too.  Or people would tell me about their own experiences, which basically amounted to the prep being the worst part.  And they were right.

Yesterday I woke up knowing that I was on clear liquids all day.  I had a bit of beef broth around 11, a bit of chicken broth at 2, a bottle of fizzy water, a couple glasses of still water, and then at 4:00... I began the treatment, all 128 ounces of The Dreaded Drink.  The package said it was best to down 8 ounces every ten minutes instead of drinking slowly.  I made a schedule so that I could check off each 10 minute mark, and began.  

At first, it wasn't so bad.  I would down each dose, while hanging out on the couch and reading My Korean Deli, a humorous memoir about a writer in NY who buys a deli with his wife for his mother-in-law.  It's about the immigrant experience, life in New York, being a small business owner, and working at the Paris Review, all rolled into a cute, though at times painful, story.  I set my phone to go off every ten minutes.  

I grew to hate that motorcycle engine by 7:00. 

I kept waiting for something to happen.  When I was about halfway through my stomach started emitting noises that I didn't know it was capable of... and not long after that... let's just say The Dreaded Drink started doing it's dreaded job.  I'll leave that to your imagination.  But honestly, it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.  Except when I had about 16 ounces left, my body said, Enough.  I couldn't make myself drink those last 16 ounces.  I called my mom and told her what I was experiencing and she said it sounded like everything was as it should be, and that I didn't have to drink that last 16 ounces.  I was somewhat disappointed in myself for not completing the task, but was not eager to begin ralphing from overconsumption of the Dreaded Drink.  In any event, I went to bed about 9:00, and had to wake up a couple times during the night to visit the washroom, and again this morning when I woke up just after seven.  

I got ready for the Big Day, and then went outside to wait for my mother to pick me up.  She was right on time.  We got to the center, I signed in, filled out MORE forms, and waited.  And waited.  And read more of My Korean Deli.  And waited some more.  My appointment was for 8:45, and keep in mind that I hadn't eaten since 6:00 p.m. on July 5th!  I was seriously hungry, but I was doing my best to wait patiently.  (No pun intended.)  At 9:30, my mother asked me what time my appointment had been for, and I told her, Don't worry-- they'll call me soon.

Not even two minutes later, they did.  I was taken into a bathroom and grilled about what I had consumed that morning (nothing) and the day before, as detailed above.  I was also asked if I had finished the Dreaded Drink.  I lied and said I did.  (What is 16 measly ounces when I've drunk over 110 ounces of the stuff???)  My answers were satisfactory, and I was given a gown and told to remove everything except my shoes and my bra and the opening was for the backside, and my bed was right on the other side of the wall with my name on it.  OK!  It's really happening!

I found the bed, and a few minutes later the curtains were moving and a female voice was calling, Hola?!  Hola?!  Was she talking to me?  I laughed nervously and hesitated...  "Um... I speak English?"  It was her turn to laugh, I KNOW, and I got you to laugh!  And then the voice walked away.

Searching in vain for a vein.  A few minutes later the nurse came by to start my IV.  I should tell you, as I told her, that my veins are really difficult to stick.  She tried once or twice, and then called in the anesthesiologist.  He had just as hard a time as she did.  First the right hand (twice), then the left hand (three times), then he left to get a smaller needle.  I'm delicate.  I had a good attitude about the whole thing... I mean, it wouldn't have done any good to get upset and they were doing their best. I'm the one with rolling veins!  I just kept covering my eyes and breathing, laughing, and encouraging.  The smaller needle did the trick, and the IV was in.  My left hand now has four prominent needle marks, and a bruise.  Battle scars.

Immediately following the human pincushion experience, two nurses came to wheel me into the operating room, Maria, at the foot of my bed, and Richard, a blonde guy about my age with a beard and friendly eyes, who told me how to get into position for the procedure. My doctor came, shook my hand, and asked me my age.  36.  He said I was young for the procedure, and asked why I was doing it.  Wasn't this already well-documented in the mountains of paperwork I filled out?  Still, I was grateful for a couple of minutes of face time before he got up close and personal with my hind-quarters.  Doctor, my dad has stage three colorectal cancer.  Everyone has been asking me to get this done, so I'm here.  He asked me if I had any pain in my stomach, and I smiled and said, No, I'm just HUNGRY!!!  He let me know that I should be eating in 30 minutes, and the procedure would take about 15.  I told them I was channeling my inner Katie Couric (who famously filmed her colonoscopy for the Today Show after her husband died of colon cancer) and they chuckled, probably just humoring me, but I didn't care.  Then Richard started turning on the anesthesia, which he warned me would burn, and it did!

Then I was out.  For about 13 minutes.  I dreamt, too, but I can't remember what I dreamed about.  I just know that I did.

When I started waking up, Richard was right there.  He explained, You're waking up, and you're okay, and they are just about finished.  They were.  I could feel this funky sucking sensation but it didn't hurt, and probably not even 30 seconds later, they were done.  I was wheeled into a little recovery area, where Richard told me off the record that they didn't see anything for me to be worried about.  We chatted for a minute, and then my mother came, and I was happy to see her.  Even happier when a nurse came and wheeled me into the room where my clothes were so that I could change, and leave!  Just like that!

Mom and I went to Mimi's Cafe, where I chowed down on a Cinnamon Brioche and crab cake omelette.  So good!  I couldn't finish my omelette, but I ate every bit of the brioche with all of its buttery icing goodness!  I think that will be all I have today.  My stomach has shrunk, and I'm going to try to keep it that way.  

That's my colonoscopy story.  I'm sure it's more information than you ever wanted to know, but hey, colon health is important.  And if you watched your great dad go through chemotherapy, and radiation, and complications, you would get one done too!   


Note: This post was written while under the influence of the after-effects of my anesthesia.  I am not supposed to sign any important documents, make any important decisions, drive, or drink alcohol.  Seriously, not one little glass of wine after all this?  Maybe you can have one for me.  I won't tell.