The Backside of Life (LynnK)

It’s been a strange few days. First they starved me. Then they fed me foul-tasting cleaning fluid. Next came a long wait, a common tactic to make the victim’s fear and stress level go off the charts. It didn’t help that I could hear, from an adjacent room, the moans of a man in pain. By the time they took me to the Room of Invasion, I was begging for drugs.

As you can probably tell, they gave me some. Not nearly enough for the procedure itself, though. I was clear-minded and starkly aware of what was being done to me. It hurt. I would have confessed to anything. But they weren’t asking.

Later, I bought tomatoes, limes, a loaf of bread, and a banana. See, I told you I was clear-minded. Later still, I drove (strictly forbidden, I think) to evening choral rehearsal and thought I sounded pretty good. Delusional, I suspect. But otherwise I felt just fine, except for the memories, and had no difficulty making the short trip to and from Handel’s Messiah.

It’s today that the drugs have set in. I am foggy-brained and useless. Now I’d cheerfully lie back, ignore what was happening, and think of England. Not like then, when I was alert and resistant. Too little, Doc, and too late.

What it was, was a colonoscopy. My HMO is big on preventative care, which is a good thing. Well, so long as they don’t mess with me. I’m happier skipping through Denial-Land, where nothing will go wrong with this finely-tuned instrument of a body. Har.

Two patient and generous friends drove me to the Torture Chamber itself. And because this sort of thing never goes right with me, the doctor was delayed and they had to wait for a very, very long time. That’s while I was stretched out on a gurney with an IV plugged into my arm, wincing at the cries from next door. Torture and guilt are a potent combination. I’d have spilled my guts to anyone.

But the Vile Gunk That Must Be Drunk had already washed them clean.

Here’s how it works. The day before the Event, one prepares oneself with a clear-liquid diet. For me that meant tea, chicken broth, apple juice, and club soda. I began fantasizing about the loaf of crusty multigrain bread I’d wolf down when the ordeal was done.

Inside the refrigerator, a gallon of pee-colored colon cleanser was chilling. A kindly soul had advised me to add Crystal Light Lemonade powder, and while it failed to enhance the Gunk’s appearance, the flavoring and some ice and a straw made a difference. All the long day, I dreaded the arrival of 6 pm. That’s when I was supposed to down eight ounces of repellant goo every ten minutes. Aiyee!

I did manage to force-drink nearly all of it within the allotted three hours, although I spent much of that time wearing a groove in the floor running back and forth to the loo. After considering the cat’s reaction to my peregrinations, I will spare you any further details.

I, for one, forgot them all when the doctor strode up to my gurney the next day. He was handsome (in the mode of Richard Dean Anderson on Stargate SG-1), professional, and candid. Not nearly so gorgeous as my darling OB/GYN, Dr. K, who could be Doctor July on a Hunks of Medicine Calendar, but I’m not complaining. The Patron Saint of Romance Novelists continues to bless me with attractive, attention-diverting physicians.

Ultimately, the colonoscopy was a waste of time. Turns out that my surgery of a few years ago pretty much rendered my colon inaccessible to a scope. Even a pediatric scope, it seems. I feel mildly insulted. And as I write this, it occurs to me the operation that saved my life might now be preventing the timely discovery of another form of cancer. Ironic, huh?

But I don’t expect that’s the case. Except for the Incident of nearly eight years ago, I’ve been healthy all my life. And I was prescribed another kind of back-door test that might help find trouble, if there is any. So today, in full brave-girl mode, I called to make the appointment. Only to hear, in essence, this recorded message: “Wait three days until the paperwork reaches us.”

What’s the matter with these people? Don’t they know that given a chance to put off an unpleasantness, I’ll put it off forever and ever. Hallelujah.

Or, not. I’m lucky enough to have health insurance with a provider that doesn’t stint on preventative services. To waste that privilege (not to mention what I’m paying for it!) would be a crime. I also know the miserable results (late-stage ovarian cancer) of a delayed diagnosis. That I survived and continue to thrive is something of a miracle.

And truly, the colonoscopy wasn’t all that bad. Several friends who recently had the procedure felt no pain whatever. Mine was only because my insides had got messed up. All in all, I recommend a colonoscopy every five years to everyone remotely at risk. It will detect and swiftly remove anything that might later develop into a killer disease.

That’s surely worth a one-day liquid diet and a Gallon of Gunk!

P.S. The crusty loaf of multigrain bread is really hitting the spot. It’s also undoing the diet benefits of a day and a half of fasting, but who cares? I deserves me some chewy, buttery goodness.