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.