Rebellion is not in my blood. I was raised to be a good girl, and I still do what I’m told. The mere thought of getting in trouble makes me nervous. But I was defiant when it came to scheduling a colonoscopy.
Once I turned fifty, my doctor urged me to schedule the procedure. She was polite, but firm. “I’m not going to harass you, but you should get this done.”
Yeah. Whatever.
I am punctual, reliable and well-behaved, but when, at each of my annual physicals Dr. Bolton said, “You need a colonoscopy. I’ll prepare the paperwork,” I gave her a smirk that said, “Prepare away, but I’m not gonna do it.”
My husband Dave, the model child, dutifully had “his first” right on time when he turned fifty. He was very Zen about it. “I like fasting. I feel cleansed,” he said.
Oh, please.
Dave had reasons for his timely evaluation: his uncle and grandfather died of colon cancer, so I was aware of the danger, but didn’t think it would happen to me. I don’t eat meat, and I have no family history or symptoms.
The truth is, I wasn’t concerned about the procedure: it was the fasting. I get cranky if I don’t eat every three hours. How could I make it through twenty-four?
But then, I noticed a vibration in my lower regions where it didn’t belong. I made an appointment with a gastroenterologist, then canceled because the sensation went away. When the feeling returned, I decided it was time.
Without divulging my motivation, I told Dave I was ready to take the plunge, so to speak. As he turned fifty-five that year, he, too, was up for another round, so we decided to do it together.
Before our preliminary consultation with the doctor, a nurse completed our forms and instructed us with humor and kindness. She tolerated our giggles and “pain-in-the-butt” jokes. When she said, “Now you’ll meet the doctor face-to-face,” Dave responded, “the last time he’ll have that pleasure.” She got a kick out of that. And Dr. Welker himself, with his jaunty gestures and broad smile, radiated enthusiasm for his field; he not only treated cancer but prevented it. We knew we had the right man.
Several days before the procedure, I purchased two liters of Fresca to mix with the Fleet Phospha Soda that would purge our systems. I also picked up the recommended package of Gas-X and stocked up on Jell-O, Italian Ice, and vegetable broth to stave off hunger pangs.
The day prior to the colonoscopy, Dave and I had a hearty bowl of Jell-O for breakfast. Yum! Refreshing AND satisfying! Well, refreshing at least.
At 3:00, we poured frosty helpings of Fresca and added 1½ ounces of Fleet laxative to each. We touched glasses in a toast, “Bottoms Up!” Hmm. Salty with a touch of grapefruit. This won’t become a favorite cocktail, mind you, but it wasn’t bad.
Then we waited… but not for long.
I was less enthusiastic about the second dose at 11:00. I was tired, hungry, and a little sore. It wasn’t bad – neither the drink nor the, um, process – but I just wanted a handful of chocolate chips and cashews. Ah well. Soon enough…
* * *
On Colonoscopy Day, we rose, cleansed and lighter. Our friend Joan arrived at 7:45 to take us to the endoscopy center as we were not allowed to drive ourselves home due to the anesthesia. I felt, if anything, a giddy sense of anticipation. Not even a hint of anxiety. Interesting… not my usual.
The receptionist welcomed us to the center with, “Are you the lovely couple here for our wonderful procedure?”
“We are,” we crowed, an exuberant chorus.
She grinned while arranging a sheaf of forms requiring our signatures, her long fingernails festive with yellow and pink stripes brilliant against dark skin. “You know, you’re the second couple here this morning. I think it’s very romantic.”
“Someone should capitalize on this trend,” quipped Dave. “They could run couples’ colonoscopy cruises.”
Enough jokes; it was time. Joan hugged us and said, “I’m so proud of you for doing this.”
And maybe that was it, the reason I wasn’t nervous. I’d postponed this for a long time, and I was glad to be taking care of it. I, too, was proud of myself.
We were directed to a nurse at a central station who assigned us adjoining cubicles. She told us to remove our clothes, put on the hospital gown provided, and make ourselves comfortable.
So, Dave and I kissed each other and repaired to our separate suites to change. The johnny-gown flecked with blue dots and diamonds was a nice complement to my new I.D. bracelet. Toasty gray peds completed my ensemble. I’d come prepared to wait with a book, writing materials, and a sweatshirt, so I settled in, content, to read.
A nurse was prepping Dave, and I could hear them chatting next door. The nurse said to Dave, “I know what you mean. I’ve wondered about that myself.” It sounded like they’d by-passed prep-questions, taken care of courtesies, and leapt to meaningful discussion. My husband can connect with anyone almost immediately, and his brother kids him about all of his friends: the cashiers, servers, Home Depot attendants, and Fed-Ex guys. How does he do that?
Nurse Mary Lou swept aside the curtain to my cubicle and introduced herself. She confirmed my name and procedure, asked me to identify my signature, and ran through a list of health questions. I tried to think of something to say that would make us instant friends but came up empty. Sigh… I am not Dave. I was momentarily unsettled when she prepared an intra-venous drip, but after the initial stick, I barely felt it. I commented on the bubbles in the tube, but Mary Lou assured me they were harmless. Still, she indulged me and cleared the line.
Through the wall came the murmur of sports announcers and referees’ whistles as Dave watched a game on TV. Someone sneezed in another cubicle. I heard blips and beeps and the rush of air. Hospital sounds.
Again, my curtain was pushed aside. Jose introduced himself and asked if I was ready. I was.
He wheeled me into a dimly lighted room. Dr. Welker sat before a monitor among an array of equipment. He greeted me as Jose inserted an oxygen tube in my nostrils. A nurse affixed adhesive discs to my chest. The form I’d signed earlier appeared beneath my nose and again, I was asked to identify my signature.
The anesthesiologist, a blonde woman wearing black-rimmed glasses and a white lab coat, told me her name, Karen Tyler, and repeated the list of questions about health issues. Check, double-check: there would be no mistakes.
Dr. Tyler smiled and patted my arm. “I’ve started the anesthesia and soon you’ll fall asleep.”
“Sounds great. I’ve had problems with sleeping ever since menopause and I…”
And then I opened my eyes and there was my yellow sweatshirt and my book and the lights were bright and I was in a different room. I blinked and looked around. Was it over?
“You’re back,” said a nurse. “Someone will be in shortly to bring you something to drink.” She added, “Your husband is done too, but he’s still asleep.”
Dr. Welker breezed by and said, “You’re awake! Everything was fine. You are clear, and so is your husband.” And then he was gone.
I heard Dave stirring. “Which side of the brain does anesthesia affect?” Without missing a beat, he was asking a good question. He didn’t even realize the procedure was over.
We were through, and we were fine.
A nurse brought a heated blanket, and I snuggled in happily to wait for my juice and crackers.
That’s a good story for EVERYONE to read …. And doo. 😎😘