Kolonoscopy, Part II

The colonoscopy "prep" was awful: the dizziness of fasting and waking up hungry the next morning with the appointment still hours away, the salty-tasting clear gel I had to down a gallon of in an hour the night before — hoping not to vomit the vile fluid up and abort/reschedule the torturous process I'd already accomplished. Horrible. After the first trip to the bathroom everything was liquid, and I got up in a rush every hour and a half all night long. Pretty disgusting.

Tuesday, August 21, dawned rainy and cool. We slogged our way through the gray wetness, Stewart driving me. At the gastroenterology office I was not required to wait long — at least they were running on schedule. A pleasant nurse took me to a procedure room and explained things. The gown was dark green, which is good with my coloring, which wasn't normal in the bluish light of the medical setting, and it didn't look bad on, but it left off about four inches above my knees. I kept some of my underwear on above the waist because it felt more comforting to do so. It was cold in the room, and I asked that a second gown be wrapped around my bare legs, which was also a comfort. I had worn tennis "footies" to keep my shoeless feet warm. Another woman entered, inserted an IV into the back of my hand and promised to put me to sleep, bless her. The sooner the better, I said. (In a medical office in the lower Hudson Valley,she had no way of understanding the pun on my Okie origins.)

The doctor is nice. His wife is my opthomologist and I like her, too. But nothing compensates for the fact that I had to turn on my side, away from the three strangers in the room, and bare my butt — and was required to do that before the anesthesiologist would start the soothing drip. Just relax, the doctor said. You realize I won't be able to do that until this lady puts me to sleep, I replied. That statement was the last I remember. Falling asleep almost immediately afterward, however, did not compensate for knowing that my body's privacy was being very unpleasantly invaded. Yuck.

I awoke and felt okay except for the rumbly intestines and the fact that people in the room were speaking about me as if I could not answer for myself. I had thought the bloating would be over, but no, the nurse explained that the doctor sends air up your butt to...what?...get a better view or something. Don't feel bad, she said, everyone, but everyone, farts in this room. Just turn on your other side, pull your knees up and have at it — you'll feel much better. Great. Very comforting.

They let me lie there resting for awhile then took my BP one last time (up before, down during, back to normal after) and gave me Apple & Eve Very Berry juice to break my fast.

I threw on my clothes hurriedly, wanting to make a run for it, but it's not the sort of test you wait a couple of days for the results of. I was led to a consultation room and Stewart was fetched. While we waited, he made a few tasteless jokes to pass the time. (He has been through this himself, twice, and vows never to do it again. I vow never to be in a positiion to hear his tasteless jokes again.)

Eventually the doctor came in and reported, with some disappointment I felt, that my bowels are perfectly normal — try as he might, he could find no sign of diverticulosis (or -itis, the suspected culprit of my massive infection last spring).

Then what did cause it? Stewart asked. The doctor explained how bacteria migrate — sneak into one's system — on a daily basis, but usually our immune systems vanquish them. However, if a person's immune system is at a low ebb, voila, you can get an infection. So, it's just what I thought, I could not help observing knowingly. Going through two months of heavy stress over Cathy's dad's illness and death suppressed my immune system and gave rise to the infection.

Most doctors hate when patients talk like this, especially women who may tend to phrase things less than scientifically, and the gastroenterologist was no exception. So naturally, he would not agree with my statement. He rephrased it carefully, in his own terminology, and pointed out that it was mere speculation on my part. So, I'm a medical mystery, I said acidly, reflecting his logic back at him and rising from my chair. We shook hands civilly, and he said he'd like to see me [and my butt, no doubt) in five to seven years. Fat chance.

The Dreaded Colonoscopy

I always said I'd never have one of these. No mammagrams and no colonoscopies, and it's nobody's business but my own. I do take responsibility, damn it. I'm not in denial about anything!

It's costly, though, a decision like that in a culture like this. My understanding doctor gave me a prescription for a breast sonogram instead, a test I thought I could cope with — no slamming titties in a device like a window sash. But the lab would not even schedule me without a preceding mammagram — would NOT do it — and made me feel like a criminal in the process of telling me this. So, my gynecologist, a woman, gives me a thorough manual breast exam whenever I see her. I work with what I've got, she says philosophically. (Also, I'm not high risk for b.c.)

And I wouldn't be having the damn colonoscopy in the morning if three or four — maybe it was five? — doctors hadn't repeatedly insisted. See, I was unfortunate enough to have an unusual kind of muscle abscess in May: excruciating pain and a week in the hospital. Since there was no injury that could have caused the infection, and since it cultured out as e coli, the culprit had to be kidney or intestine.

I had my kidneys checked out — that was easy, a little blood, a urine sample. But the kidneys were fine, never better...unfortunately, from my point of view. Hence the upcoming colonoscopy.

What is it with me? It's the humiliation, babe, the humiliation. Let's just say I have a dark past and anything, anything at all, that smacks of humiliation, mortification, immodesty, over-familiarity or boundary-crossing is u n b e a r a b l e. Get over it, they tell you. Everybody does it, they tell you. But THEY don't get it. I'm serious about no nudity with strangers, let alone grabbing my butt or my tits — I've had enough trouble with the people I know well, if you get my drift.

But not only the respected gastroenterologist but also my trusted (female) osteopath says it would be SUCH a good idea, and I should JUST DO IT. So I'm JUST DOING IT! (Gritting my teeth all the way, not to mention what's going on with the sphincter muscle I'm sitting on.)

Everyone told me the preparation is worse than the test. Everyone said, get the procedure done early in the morning so the fasting is shorter. Of course, it's the knowledge of sticking my bare butt out for strangers that does me in, even if I'm going to be asleep at the time. As always, it's what I know that kills me. And, as for the fasting, all I could get was an 11:30 a.m. appointment. So I may be pretty hungry in the morning, so much for the breaks.

Right now I am liquid fasting: clear broth, coffee, tea, water and ices (lemon, kiwi, mango — nothing red or purple allowed). I'm sure you've already been through this with Catie Couric, or whoever it was, on TV, but I don't watch TV. I'm living this. And so far... not bad. I had a BIG breakfast, which had to be over by 11:30 a.m. this morning. And I've had chicken-mushroom broth and lemon ice, and for me, this is living! No muss, no fuss.

However, in a little over an hour I have to start ingesting the weird chemical potions they give you in the Kolonoskopy Kit. Four horse-pills and some yucky liquid you have to gulp down 8 ounces at a shot every 15 minutes. After that, you can trust me not to go into further detail.

More tomorrow — gotta go pack for the wedding!

A Sandwich Day

Today in my quiet New York suburb it's Sandwich Day: running around trying on, ironing, and packing for my daughter's wedding in Vermont, and remembering to call my 88-year-old mom back in Oklahoma, to keep her apprised of the latest family news.

In this year of preparation for the wedding, my daughter Catherine has not been speaking to me, I've been hurt and infuriated, and my husband has been steamed at Demian, our lovely son-in-law to be. In this last week, some relations have improved somewhat, but Stewart said today that he still isn't sure he'll be able to offer a sincere toast to the happy couple. That's okay, I told him, though of course it isn't, but worrying won't help, so I expect a miracle by Friday.

I do not mention this tension in my call to mom. Catherine is her first grandchild, and mom doesn't believe darling Cathy is capable of any bitchiness. I can't come to the wedding, mom says sorrowfully, again. Not only is her long-term memory shot, but so is the short-term. Whenever I call, she wants to know what I do all day, it's news to her about the wedding, and she asks how "we all" are — because she doesn't remember Stewart's name, ever.

That's okay, I tell her, though it isn't. Maxine is Catherine's only living grandparent now, and she'll be missed. And Catherine's an only child. And both her birth father and her Grandpa Jay died in April this year. And she's feuding with her dad's girlfriend. One of Cathy's two stepbrothers (Stewart's younger son) can't come to the wedding because he's gone all-over-Orthodox — with new black hat, modest wife and baby Schlomo — there's really no kosher catering in Brattleboro. So, it's not okay, nothing's okay, but Grandma Maxine really is too weak to travel to Vermont.

I am the liverworst of the sandwich, the bread is rough, scratchy — grainy and toasted: I get squished from time to time, but I'll be fine — I've been squished before. You live. We'll all be fine: Cathy will only remember that the wedding was lovely, even if it rains because ... weddings always are lovely, aren't they?

Squish…squish…squish.