Patrolin’ the Colon

While food entry is celebrated with many, in fabulous kitchens, at public celebrations, and in packed restaurants, food exit is a private affair.  Suddenly thrust into the light by the side-mouthed utterance of the word, colonoscopy, we avoid eye contact, and retreat to our individual memories.  And in truth, if the dreaded colon-ass-copy was to be discussed at gatherings, it is the preparation that is cringe-worthy, more than the actual procedure. 

Colonoscopy preparation is the pinnacle of consumption regulation.  And like flossing, it’s an exam you can’t cheat on.  If there ever was an exception to the “It’s the journey, not the destination”, this is it.  

T-3 Days:

Colonoscopy preparation instructions say to avoid any seeded food for three days prior to the procedure, eg. strawberries, sesame seeds, tomatoes.  Crap.  I didn’t realize I ate so many tomatoes.  I am not good at imposed deprivation.  This is minor compared to what is coming, but the poor-me tide is rising, swirling around my ankles.   

The instructions also say “DO NOT eat any high fibre food (example: sweet corn, salad)”.  I think the examples are slight, so I Google “foods high in fibre.”  Turns out I have a high fibre diet.  Who knew?  Poor-me tide at knee height.  For lunch, I settle for pasta with pesto.  And I can feel the energy draining from my body.  I need nourishment!  Worse stuff is coming!  After I inhale a bag of kale chips, it occurs to me that kale is solidly in the salad category.  One of two things specifically forbidden.  Idiot.

T-2 Days:

At every hunger pang, I am confused about what is legal to eat.  Every time I reach for something, I flash to it being listed on that web-site.  I have an Eeyore-worthy cloud over my head.  I stray over the high fibre line once or twice.  Guilty again. 

T-1 Days:

This is the slippery slope of no return.  No food after 10 am.  I try to break the last breakfast down into the smallest bites to enjoy it as long as possible, as I watch the clock count down.    

Today, I start the medication.  I read the instructions one-hundred times.  I must take pills six hours before I drink the solution.  At the designated pill time, our family is away from the house, but as soon as I take the pills, I make us all rush home.   And then Google exactly what these pills are, and what they do.  It says that they should start some activity six hours after they are taken.  I did not have to hijack the family, but they are patient with me.  They can see the tide lapping at my waist.  I hope Google is accurate, because I have a hockey game four hours after I take the pills.  I am worried the medication may be anxious to get started, or react with all the contraband fibre I’m packing.  Sometime during my hockey game, I am delighted to find a small piece of food in my teeth.  I swallow it with glee.  The smallest of victories in a desert of options.  The pills are not overachievers; it is all good until I get home.

Now it is not about what I CANNOT put in my body, it is about what I HAVE to put in my body.  Ugh.  A litre of fruit-flavoured solution has to be dumped into my throat like Drain-o into a clogged sink.  It does not want to go.  I break it into small gulps, but that makes them many.  Thirsty from my exercise, I get through it. 

I wait for the main event.  I have been to many, many Bruce Springsteen concerts and ticket-buying time is always an anxiety filled event.  If only I could coordinate ticket buying with the colonoscopy, I wouldn’t need this stupid solution, Dr. Springsteen.  Belted, zippered jeans are abandoned for elastic-waisted pajamas.

T- 0 Days:

The morning of, I have to drink another litre of the solution, broken down into four portions, ten minutes apart.  It is not feeding my tongue or my stomach like usual consumption.  Don’t think, just do.  Don’t think, just do.

The appointment is set for 2 pm and the morning is endless after downing the solution.  I think I might work-out to pass the time, but my lethargic body mocks me.  I can’t read, I don’t want to watch anything.  I am trying to jerk time forward, like inching a toboggan toward the crest of a hill. 

I read the instructions again.  I was supposed to have a lot of clear liquid yesterday.  Damn.  I did not do that.  But after a litre of solution I am not that thirsty.  A headache is forming.  I Google “Is coffee a clear liquid?”  Ask the internet a question, you can get the answer you are looking for, and ignore the one you are not.  Imagining the look on the face of the doctor as I ask that question, I decide to forego it.  I have come too far to mess this up now.   

I decide that I should do my hair and put on make-up to disguise myself as a person having a regular day.  I start to worry that the doctor might be sick.  What if they cancel?  My mind thrashes about, inconsolable at the thought.  I am neck-high in a sea of poor, poor pitiful me.  At least my disguise is spared.

It’s 12:00 pm and time for my last drop of water.  I gulp as much as I can of this last legal consumption.  At 12:10 pm, my tongue is like a desert.  How have I not been thirsty for two days and now it is full on carpet tongue?    

The clinic number appears on my call display.  Oh no!  Are they postponing?  Damn law of attraction; what you focus on, comes true.  Instead, the receptionist tells me that the doctor is running on time.  Can I get to the clinic early?  I leave right away.  The sooner I get there, this will be over sooner!  Or will it?  I’m confused by why I need to arrive earlier, if the doctor is on time.  No matter.  I’m in it now. 

When you get this procedure, you CANNOT, I repeat, CANNOT, leave on your own.  The receptionist asks for my husband’s name and number.  The nurse asks if I have someone coming.  Then the second nurse asks the same.  And the anesthesiologist.  And the doctor.  Is someone coming!?  Yes!  Asking me so many times, they must think they might break me if I am lying.  But they will cancel the procedure if someone is not coming.  This is high stakes.  At this stage of the game, I think I could convince them any Uber driver is my husband. If I had to.

We do in fact start early.  Under my hospital gown, I have on only my watch and my socks.  I have chosen my socks carefully this morning.  They are colourful and new and perhaps they will be a topic of conversation among the doctors and nurses and not any part of my naked body.  I check my watch as I am given the first bit of sedation.  It’s 1:46 pm.  It’s comforting to know that we are in fact ahead of schedule. The next thing I know, I am in recovery.  I look at my watch.  It is 1:53 pm. Three days of preparation for seven minutes of procedure. 

A smiling nurse offers me juice and cookies.  Oh, sweet bliss.  Guiltless food full of sugar and bereft of fibre.  Another nurse brings me the same.  A double dose of zero guilt.  Is it possible to live this way?

I am handed a paper that tells me there are no problems, but I must still wait for the doctor.  A victim to my need for praise, I want to hear about my sparkling colon.  I hope for compliments on consuming bland pasta or how, with nerves of steel, I prevailed over my craving for coffee.  But instead I get a perfunctory clean bill of health and a “See you in five years!”.

I know I should be more grateful.  For a health care system that covers this cost, for my family doctor who religiously sets up these appointments, for the kindness of everyone in the process.  And especially because my mother survived colon cancer due to early detection.  I will be.  Honestly.  I just need a couple of days.  Okay, maybe years.

For now, I revel in the doctor mandated breather from normal activities and relief from making any decisions.  I am told to watch TV and rest.  Amen.  This is my reward.  I take it.