About the time I reached my fiftieth birthday, I experienced two inevitable milestones. The first was “The Letter” from AARP. The second was a reminder from my internist that it was time for my first colonoscopy.
The AARP Letter magically appeared in my mailbox while I was in my late forties, inviting me to join the American Association of Retired People. It was the first time that I officially felt old. The week before, I was thinking about skydiving out of helicopters, running around with women half my age, racing formula one cars and skiing chest deep powder in Alaska. After getting The Letter, I became focused on reverse mortgages, adult diapers, support hose, tri-focal lenses, hearing aids, motorized scooters and burial sites.
Even though I’m now officially into middle age, I’ve put off having a colonoscopy several times due to cost – or at least that was the best excuse I could come up with at the time. But, with health insurance companies now offering it as part of their preventative healthcare packages, my excuses were rapidly running out.
For the younger, uninitiated reader, a colonoscopy is what healthcare professionals call a “routine” test – routine, if you consider shoving a tube, the length of a baseball bat into a place where the sun don’t shine. The same reason why you never want to drop your soap in the shower at Sing Sing.
At the end of the tube is a camera that projects images of the real you onto a wide screen TV for a room full of giggling nursing students. There’s also a long opening that runs down the length of the instrument where the gastroenterologist can insert a wire and “snip off” (his words, not mine) a little piece of the inside of your colon, should he discover something unusual. The official term is taking a biopsy. The unofficial term is shredding your bowels.
Still undaunted by what lay ahead, my doctor explained to me how I’d need to prepare for the procedure. If the thought of having a vacuum cleaner hose pushed up your ying yang doesn’t turn you off, then preparing your bowels for the exam will. My doc recommended that I stop by the pharmacy and pick up a HalfLytely Bowel Preparation kit. It comes in a large box, with all kinds of parts and instructions – lots of instructions. Ingesting a HalfLytely Bowel Preparation kit is the medical equivalent of having your bowels blown out by a fire hose. Even the fish sticks you ate in the sixth grade will somehow find their way out of your Adolf. They want your insides to be clean.
The Pharmacist ran through all of the standard HalfLytely precautions with me: don’t wander too far from the bathroom, have only clear liquids the night before, don’t wander too far from the bathroom, continue to take your regular medications, don’t wander too far from the bathroom, drink plenty of water and don’t wander too far from the bathroom. I somehow got the impression that I shouldn’t wander too far from the bathroom.
The nurse told me that prior to the colonoscopy, I’d need to arrive at the hospital early enough to fill out the usual medical history questionnaire: Do I now have or have I ever had heart disease, high blood pressure, diabetes, Shrinking Penis Syndrome, Mud Wrestlers Rash, Grocer’s Itch, Uncombable Hair Syndrome, Mary Hart Epilepsy, Bowen’s Disease, Fish Odor Syndrome, Carrot Addiction, Alien Hand Syndrome, Hula-hoop Intestine, Harlequin Ichthyosis, Nipple-Areolar Complex, Cutlery Craving, Foreign Accent Syndrome or Blue Skin Disorder? Sadly, I had to answer no to all of the above.
On the morning of the procedure, I was told to strip down and slip into a hospital gown – with the opening up the back. I had other things on my mind, so I had no problem with treating my fellow patients to a free view of my hairy derriere. After the nurse took my vital signs, she inserted an IV line and pushed in some sort of magic potion that made me feel like I’d just polished off a 12-pack – in 3 minutes. The whole point of the sedative is to make you feel comfortable during the procedure and help you forget that you’re about to be voluntarily violated.
After wheeling me into the operating room, the doctor asked me to roll onto my right side with my knees curled into the fetal position – the same position flight attendants instruct you take just before a fatal plane crash. While I was getting comfortable, I peeked over my shoulder and caught doc grinning from ear to ear as he greased up the dipstick. “Mr. Smith,” he said. “When I insert the instrument, you may feel some mild discomfort. Just breathe normally and try to relax.” Judging from the shredded Naugahyde on the operating table, the previous patients hadn’t mastered this part. “You may want to hum one of your favorite songs to take your mind off of things,” said the doctor. So, I chose two: “Tonight I want to Cry” by Keith Urban and “Deeper into You” by TrustCompany.
A minute later, I heard the air compressor start chugging away and contrary to his instructions, I clenched every muscle in my body (including my anal sphincter). The good doctor twisted and contorting his body as he guided the scope through the nooks and crannies of my digestive tract, yelling, “Whoa,” “Whoo-hoo” and “Got you, ya bastard!” as if he was playing an X-box.
The things no one prepared me for were the post-operative effects of someone inflating my lower intestinal tract like a truck tire. Within seconds after standing up, I cut loose with a toot that would have made the New York Philharmonic Orchestra green with envy. This was followed by the obligatory sprint for the restroom and more contributions from the wind section.
Thankfully, the results of the test came back negative for polyps and other irregularities, so I’m off the hook for another 5 years – just about long enough to recover my dignity.
