People of a certain age get to engage…
… in certain activities simply by virtue of the number of years they have survived. At 14, I got a “learner’s permit” to drive under the supervision of an adult. Six months later, I could motor around by myself from dawn to dusk, though the motors never got much work. Small-town life required careful operation on my part, given the high number of potential observers so willing and able to report back to Mom and Dad.
Night-time driving began at 16, lending a little anonymity to my activities, not all of which were legal or smart. At age 18, I got to vote. Don’t ask me who for, though. The legal consumption of illegal quantities of 3.2 beer that same year wiped my psyche clear of any political interest or activity. I became super-man: invulnerable, impervious, obnoxious.
People of another age have to engage
All that beer fuzzed the transition from getting to engage in fun, desirable, adult-like activities to having or feeling obligated to perform the less fun, chore-like activities that most real adults tackled. I went to college, more to get away from home than for any sensible reason. The beer helped me survive until graduation, after which I suffered through a series of tedious jobs. The one bright spot: getting to marry a smart, kind, beautiful woman who could overlook my many flaws and has since endured well over a quarter century of idiosyncratic if not crazy behavior.
In what seemed like a retro-spectacular flash, I reached what I used to consider old age: fifty (50 [half a century])! Not quite super-man anymore, but still willing to risk the occasional leap of faith into heavily trafficked roads upon un-stretched muscles. The reward for achieving such a milestone: a doctor’s referral to the gastroenterologist. I had no family history of colon cancer. I didn’t know anyone who had ever suffered through the disease for better or worse, other than Katie Couric’s poor husband, Jay Monahan, twelve years earlier. However, partly out of ingrained obedience and partly out of fear of what might lurk below, I made the appointment with the colonoscope, prepped as instructed, and reported for insertion at the appointed time, eager to get the whole process behind me, so to speak.
I had received many warnings about the preparatory cleanse: how that step constituted the worst part of the procedure. I believed everybody, right up until I woke up afterward in the recovery cubicle with a gutful of super uncomfortable cramps. A nurse explained that my exceptionally tortuous colon required the introduction of a larger-than-normal quantity of air to clear the way for the scope. Mom always told me I was special. Finally, I know why.
The nurse went on to suggest—in that kind, caring manner all nurses have—that I replace all the writhing and whining with a more effective side-to-side, whole-body roll while taking the boldest of measures to release the resulting gas. “Don’t be embarrassed,” she encouraged. “That’s all fresh air coming out of there.”
“If it’s comin’ out of me, it ain’t fresh,” I protested. But I followed orders while my wife sat dutifully by my side, observing what I rank as the second-most-humiliating event that she has had the honor to witness over the course of our union. Thank goodness we left “for better or worse” in the vows.
A few minutes later, as promised, I felt much relieved, especially upon learning that everything down there looked normal. The doctor recommended a repeat performance in ten years for screening purposes.
Mere minutes later, those ten years had come and gone. A second investigation of my mostly happy dumping ground loomed. The tenth of a century had passed in a flash until I started to think of all that could happen in a five-foot-long organ over the course of a decade. In that interval, a handful or more of beloved friends and acquaintances had succumbed to colon cancer. My super-man days had faded. Surely, a polyp or two had developed, possibly even a lesion somewhere along that long stretch of fragile tissue. I mean, look what happened to my body and my face.
Approaching the pharmacy counter a week in advance, cheeks already clenched, my only hope was that the prep process had undergone an upgrade over this long stretch of time. Those hopes came true in one way but went astray in several others.
“That’ll be $110,” said the cashier.
Having rarely paid more than $10 for a prescription, I gasped involuntarily at the amount, especially given the fact that my employer’s health insurance carrier claims to cover the entire cost of the screening procedure. Turns out that they’re willing to pay for the procedure, probably marginally and only because of irritating health fanatics like Katie, but they are also willing to cheap out on the prep, therefore possibly negating, in my mind, the efficacy of the procedure.
Through a well-hidden eye roll, the cashier welcomed me to ask the doctor to prescribe a more insurance-appropriate (cheaper) cleanse solution, a path that even I consider unwise. So, I headed home with my Suprep Bowel Prep Kit, where the carton perched on the counter for several days like a boxy bird of colon prey.
For all you fellow cleansers out there, the Suprep website contains a voucher for $15 toward your co-pay. The website also contains a wealth of additional information regarding the entire prep and investigation process, including a “Dosing Countdown Planner.”
Suprep Tuesday
One day prior to insertion, I followed the prep instructions mostly to the letter, eating an early light breakfast of toast and eggs. Promptly at 6:00 pm that evening, I cracked open the first six-ounce bottle of Suprep, stirred in 10 more ounces of water, and sipped the not-completely-vile, tinge-of-grape-flavor brew down over a period of about 15 minutes. Some preppers suggest additives such as lemonade or vodka, a practice I would consider disrespectful to both those liquids as well as the colon.
Having consumed the initial gut bomb, all I had to do at that point was drink 32 more ounces of water in the next 45 minutes, a goal I barely accomplished, along with some Jello and chicken broth, before the restroom races began: all pit stops, no track time. I managed to sip maybe another 16 ounces of water—an amount that eventually proved insufficient—before I collapsed into bed, exhausted, nauseated, and shaky.
Rump Day
Arising at 0645 the next morning, I stirred some water into the remaining Suprep bottle and commenced choking down the now-completely-vile brew, which had taken on under-worldly traits during the night: chief among them an oily consistency and the flavor of spoiled grapes. I tried to savor the follow-up 32 ounces of pure water and nurse the precious liquid for the entire hour allotted to consumption, but I ended up gulping it down amidst a desperate dash to the commode.
So, the last few minutes of allowable water consumption went to waste, so to speak, and I spent the next four hours wondering who ever dreamt up this miserable process while reminding myself of the voluntary nature of this undertaking. I did this to myself! On the upside, I actually started looking forward to the colonoscopy, especially the pre-game knockout. By the time I staggered into the surgery center under the watchful eye of my wife, I felt dizzy, dehydrated, nauseated, and light-headed, mostly because, I would bet, of inadequate fluid intake the previous evening prior to bedtime.
The low blood pressure resulting from this poor judgment further clouded my thinking, just as the beer had over forty years earlier, and just as a series of mandatory consent forms appeared under my nose. I did remember, though, to address my chief concern—my tortuous colon—with the doctor during the very courteous time he allotted to answering any questions. He assured me that the use of carbon dioxide, which the body absorbs 250 times faster than air, plus a few other procedural improvements over the course of the previous decade, would help alleviate the discomfort I remembered so well through the fog of dehydration.
Thus consoled and consented, I turned myself over to the anesthetist, who filled my brain with propofol, the milk of amnesia.
“This is magic,” I remember saying on the brink of slumber and time travel.
An apparent instant later, I awakened during the victory parade of my gurney back to the privacy cubicle, where I received a clean bill of colon health, as well as hearty congratulations and thanks for my thorough cleansing job. See you all in a decade! If, that is, some other affliction or accident doesn’t get me first. Maybe by then, someone will have figured out a way to take some of the misery out of the cleanse, maybe even add a little fun to the event as a (w)hole. Sorry, couldn’t be helped.
Trust In Each Other
Unpleasant though some aspects of the procedure were, I still felt thankful for the great care received at the surgery center, as well as the access we have to such thorough screening and prevention techniques. I would repeat the whole process tomorrow, gladly, if necessary. I would also encourage everyone to follow the updated American Cancer Society Guideline for Colorectal Cancer Screening.
The medical profession performs what I consider magic and miracles large and small every second of every day. I trust them implicitly, probably because I have had the good fortune to spend a lot of quality time with many different doctors, nurses, and other medical professionals. They are all intelligent people dedicated to our well-being and best interests. I regret the lack of faith and respect that some have for such a dedicated group of fellow women and men.
Help One Another
If I could change anything about our health care system, I would shift more effort toward issues that defy standard measurement and observation: pain, depression, substance abuse, mental instability, suicidal inclinations, etc. A camera may not lie, but so many real human afflictions remain hidden and untreated because of our stubborn fascination with raw data. The cleanse and the lens make a great team in the battle against colon cancer, but the un-measurable, un-observable mind remains a mystery.
On the subject of observations, I would gladly read and reply to any comments, opinions, or suggestions you have on this subject. Please use the form below. Thanks in advance.