Adventures with Sigmoidoscopies

One of the wonderful things about turning 50 is all of the maintenance your body suddenly demands. Like an old car, whose rubber parts crack, rot and eventually fall off, my once invincible body now begs for tune-ups and even the occasional overhaul.

Ever since Dr. Ashaugheng explained the procedure in detail, I'd been searching for every conceivable excuse I could find for postponing having a sigmoidoscopy. For the uninitiated, a sigmoidoscopy is a "routine" test where a gastroenterologist pushes a tube, about the length of a baseball bat and the circumference of your index finger through your rectum, up "where the sun don't shine." At the end of the tube is a camera that transfers images of the real you onto a wide screen TV for a room full of giggling nursing students.

My first reservation started with thinking, "What's wrong with this Dr. Ashaugheng?" Why would any guy voluntarily spend 14 years in school to end up Roto-Rootering the most disgusting part of a patient's anatomy? What was the problem? Were all of the plastic surgeon fellowships all taken? Wouldn't a guy much rather spend his day fondling women's breasts than looking at people's poopers? Out of all the specialties a medical student could choose from, what could possibly lead him to this end (no pun intended)?

Next, I held out hope for the chance of prohibitive cost. Years ago this type of test was easy to write off - they cost the patient a bundle. I had everything riding on it as my way out - "Gee, I'd love to have a guy stuff a tube up my butt, but I just can't afford it. Oh well... Maybe next year." Unfortunately, I found out that minus a small co-payment, sigmoidoscopies are now completely covered by most medical insurance policies, so it's very affordable. Rats. I'll have to keep digging.

Then there's the preparation. 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 doctor recommended that I stop by the pharmacy and pick up a HalfLytely Bowel Preparation kit. Ingesting a HalfLytely Bowel Preparation kit is the medical equivalent of having your bowels blown out by a fire hydrant. Everything you've eaten since you were in kindergarten will somehow find its way out of your Adolf - onto the floor, if you can't run very fast. They want you 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 on the morning of the examination, 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, Hula-hoop Intestine, Harlequin Ichthyosis, Nipple-Areolar Complex, Carrot Addiction, Cutlery Craving, Alien Hand Syndrome, 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 escorted into pre-op for my gown fitting. Like any other medical procedure, I was instructed to take off all of my clothes and slip into one of the hospital gowns that never completely fastens up the back. I had my mind on other things that morning, so I had no problem with treating the other patients to a free view of hairy ass. After the nurse took my vital signs, she pushed some sort of magic sedative into my IV line and bade me farewell. The whole point of the sedative is to help you forget that you've just consented to being violated by another man and to make you comfortable during the procedure - well, as comfortable as you can be with an exhaust pipe pushed up your rear.

After rolling me into the O.R., Dr. Ashaugheng asked me to lay on my right side with my knees curled into the fetal position - sort of like kissing your ass goodbye before a fatal bus crash. While I was getting comfortable, I peeked over my shoulder and caught him greasing up the dipstick. "During the test, you're going to feel a slight sensation of bloating, fullness and pressure," said Dr. Ashaugheng. "If you feel anything uncomfortable like cramping or an 18-wheeler careening through your lower intestines, I want you to let me know right away." Of course, he never said anything about stopping and refunding my money. I wouldn't have stopped, anyway. After all I went through to get my bowels this clean, it would be a shame if I didn't have anywhere else to go to show them off. So, I nodded my approval.

A minute later, I heard the air compressor start chugging away and dug my fingernails into the sheets. The entire procedure actually took less than 15 minutes as Dr. Ashaugheng guided the sigmoidoscope through the nooks and crannies of my digestive tract. If it wasn't for him twisting and contorting his body while yelling, "Whoa," "Whoo-hoo" and "Got you, ya bastard!" I would have suspected that mine was just another dull, routine procedure.

The things that no one ever prepares you for are the post-operative effects of someone driving a freight train through your lower intestinal tract. 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, followed by more contributions from the wind section.

Thankfully, the results of the test came back negative for polyps or any other irregularities, so I was off the hook for another 5 years - just about long enough, I figured, to recover my dignity when Dr. Ashaugheng greases me up again.