Surviving My FIrst Colonoscopy at Age 39

In a little more than a month I'll be 40. Since I didn't feel like an adult at 18, 21, 30, or even 39, I'm guessing this is supposed to be a momentous occasion. Perhaps that's the year when I'll seem like I should really be old enough to be making the mortgage payment I've been making, and raising the daughter I have. Maybe. But I hope not.

The one thing that approaching middle age does bring is the promise of tests that you don't want to have. Women get to be poked, prodded, and squeezed. Men get to experience something they thought only happened among people claiming alien encounters. Won't go into detail, except to say you can get a glimpse of it here .

Well, having just received that treatment six months ago, I got it again a few days ago when I went to my doctor with some bleeding issues that screamed "danger Will Robinson" since they had no evident reason to be there.

I went to my doctor who decided to do the same exact rectal exam she'd done a few months prior, although this time I at least had time to inhale before she did it. As she searched for Jimmy Hoffa, I began to realize that I'd last 15 seconds in a prison setting. She finally hit what appeared to be a sore spot, dug around a bit, as thought to punish me for making her ruin her lunch hour with this bit of disgustingness, then searched around a bit more. When she was done and removed the offending digit, I swear I heard the cheek popping sound.

Her assessment was that she really couldn't feel anything (if only I'd been so lucky), but she'd order up a flexible sigmoidoscopy to take a good look up there.

I spent the week in high anxiety, seeking out videos online trying to find out what I was going to go through, and wondering if watching "Katie Couric's Colonoscopy" was going to disqualify me from holding public office in the future.

Finally, the day of preparation had come. Like a Gremlin, I was to eat nothing after midnight except Jello and Popscicles (no red food coloring, since it can show up like blood). The point, of course, is that you have to have clean tubing inside for the doctors to get a clear picture of you and so that they don't have to give up their six figure salaries because a patient explodes on them. These points kind of get muddied when you're 15 hours into your fast and even the cat treats in the pantry look appetizing. I managed to find some moldy Pop Ice packages in the back of the pantry and tossed them in the freezer, and made some ancient diet (!) Jello to go with it. You'd be amazed at how awesome both taste when you've had no nourishment the entire day. The sole blueberry flavored Pop Ice I found was like eating a giant steak by the time I cut the package open.

Next would come taking the Draino to my digestive tract. Other family members I knew had been faced with drinking a gasoline can's worth of nasty liquid designed to make you poop out everything you'd eaten since the late 80's. My preparation sheet merely said I needed two bottles of Magnesium Citrate. It turns out that CVS had several flavors of this stuff all packaged in fancy glass bottles, like the world's worst Jones Soda flavors ever.

I took the first bottle out of my fridge at 2:00 PM, as directed. I twisted the cap off and imagined I was drinking an airline bottle of Perrier. The first sip wasn't too bad, like the world's saltiest sparkling lemonade. I managed to get the whole bottle down without a hitch. Then, the urge hit. Let's just say that it pays to be near a bathroom. My stomach finally calmed down by 4:00 PM, when it was time to down my second bottle. This bottle didn't go down as easy. The salty taste began to get to me and I wound up sipping it very slowly. Finally I decided the heck with it and gulped it down like a teen with his first beer. Believe it or not, at this point, there apparently was still some inner cleaning to do and I was hitting the bathroom again frequently within the next hour

The rest of the day was spent trying to deal with my ever increasing hunger. Every ad on television seemed to be for some awesome looking frozen meal or fast food place. By 9 PM, I'd had every tasty liquid thing I could get down my throat and all that was left was some increasingly nasty tasting jello and my Diet Dr. Pepper. I did manage to stay up until midnight, if only so that I could get in my last sips of water before I was cut off from liquid until after my procedure was done.

Amazingly, I slept pretty well, dreaming of eating an entire casino buffet, and then oddly, hurtling down a large disturbing tunnel. I woke up the next morning feeling somewhat refreshed, but also suddenly very aware that I was about to have my butt scoped, hadn't eaten in over 24 hours, and that I could face a very different future in the next few hours.

Since you're required to have someone with you to take you home, my wife drove me to the hospital, we found a place to park, and then took our trek to find the Endoscopy center, which was conveniently marked with a sign halfway inside the hospital. We found out that the center did not have me on the schedule, which brought visions of yet another 24 hour fast and pooping my insides out, which made me cry inside, until the woman said, "we'll take care of it".

They called me back near my appointment time and shuttled me to a small room with a curtain where I was to take off everything but my socks. Not being a fan of my own nudity, I asked for a gown that was bigger than the one they gave me, and they promptly bought me a tent with armholes. I wrapped it around myself and the nurse prepped me with an IV that she put in my hand, which hurt like hell.

I was then asked for a full medical history and list of allergies, almost all of which I answered in the negative. I was also asked my name, date of birth, and why I was there, one of the many times I was asked this. When I was ready to go, my wife was brought in and we sat there, waiting another hour for me to call back.

I was wheeled into a room with two or three monitors and again asked for my complete medical history and allergies. Forgive me, but I've always wondered why I get asked this info every time I go to the doctor, and sometimes twice. What exactly are the writing down? "Asked him again, still not changing his story!"

The surgeon and anesthesiologist both came in and talked to me, and the assistant anesthesiologist and nurse in the room helped to soothe me as I got nervous and started to cry. The doctor advised me that he thought it was best to do a full colonoscopy given the nature of my problem, and I told him that he was the expert, so if that's what he thought I needed, have at it. We then all waited for the appropriate camera to be ready from being cleaned and sterilized. "We're the only hospital that sterilizes 'em," I was told. The rest spit shine them, I guess. When the camera came in, I began to see some extreme close ups of my bed and other items around me. I'd asked the anesthesiologist for propofol, the Michael Jackson drug. My wife said it was the best at not leaving you groggy afterwards. It seemed okay with the exception of having to wear a single beaded glove while being administered. The assistant anesthesiologist said she'd have to push some lidocaine into my IV to take the burning off of the propofol. That burned a bit, but soon I was off to sleep.

The next thing I remember I was awoken from a dream. I was instantly aware of my surroundings and remembered everything up until the point where I went down. I became aware of some intestinal discomfort as I was wheeled into a recovery room. They gave me some caffeine to help the withdrawal headache I was having. My wife filled me in on what was wrong with me, which thankfully was not too serious. I was then told that I should try to fart as much as possible. The colonoscopy uses air to keep your piping open and easy to view, and that air becomes trapped when the scope is removed, leaving some uncomfortable gas pains.

The first one I let rip caused giggles from throughout the recovery area, which made me instantly self conscious. I asked to be helped to the bathroom so I could deflate myself in private. Mistake. As I sat on the toilet, the pain began to become intense, like the worst gas I've ever had, and I could not get rid of it. I was now embarrassed and in agony, and frankly, becoming a huge wuss. I asked to move back to the bed. I moved back there and decided that my vanity be damned, I was farting. I laid on my left side, which is the side to go to if you want to pass gas, and soon managed to get enough out to be comfortable enough to get dressed and get out of there.

On the trip home, the gas pains nailed me once more, and I was afraid that my wife would have to pull over to the nearest bathroom where I could embarrass myself some more. Luckily I was able to make it home with a bit of discrete tooting and some deep breathing.

Once home, I resumed my eating, starting light with some crackers. My stomach felt abused and beaten, so I had a relatively light late lunch, but soon gained enough of an appetite to eat a bit of junk later in the evening. The next day I overdid it and paid the price with incredible gas pains that had me up in the middle of the night thinking I was having a heart attack. Other than that, I am no worse for wear except for an increased fear of snakes and webcams on flexible necks.

In my reading about colonoscopies, I found out that many patients wind up getting diagnosed far too late for very treatable colon cancer because they're too embarrassed to get the test. Let's face it, most of us don't even like to use the restroom when another person is present, having a whole medical team staring at your flabby butt and shoving a camera up it is the last thing anyone wants. But realize, the doctor is doing a dozen or more of these each day. Your butt is probably only the fifth worst he or she has seen, and if you're not completely clean inside, the doctor and staff are prepared for it.. Unless you have a noteworthy tattoo or you're a complete disgusting slob, nobody will remember you were there in a day. Is avoiding embarrassment really worth dying for?