Monday, July 26, 2010

Tales From the Back Side!

As we travel through this grand adventure called life, certain chronological markers take on specific meanings. At 16, we get the driver's license. At 16 and a half, we back our grandmother's VW Beetle into a bridge post. At 18, we're legal adults. At 20, we back our own VW into an unsuspecting Chevette in a mini-mart parking lot. At 21, we're legally drinking adults.

For some of us, turning 30 means we have to start considering ourselves "adults," whatever that means. Me, I'm not sure I'm ready for that big a step yet. As Jimmy Buffett once said, I'm growing older but not up.

Once a specific number of years have passed, you're "of a certain age," as they say. Things that once seemed abstract enter the realm of reality. Things like certain medical tests that always sounded unpleasant, but at least we could always say "No sweat. I'm too young for that."

Speaking of backing into things ... one day you wake up and have THAT birthday. You know the one. The one where, at your next annual check-up, your doctor recommends a "screening" exam. You're officially no longer too young for that. Time to sweat.

Oh Lord, he's not going THERE with this, is he? Not that thing with the northbound fiber optic tube and the southbound exit? Yes, he is. I am, friends and neighbors, talking about the dreaded C test -- the colonoscopy.

Relax. I promise not to get too graphic, and I'll do my best to keep you entertained. Grab some coffee and read on.

Believe me, a colonoscopy wasn't exactly high on my to-do list. Just like an old VW Beetle, I've managed to reach THAT age without really needing a dipstick. But I trust my doc, a very smart woman. More importantly, I'd been saying to Exec Chef Heatherann for years that I'd have it done at THAT age, just as Katie Couric recommends.

Now Exec Chef Heatherann, in addition to running the cafe here, is a registered nurse in real life. She knows the importance of such things. And she wasn't about to let me back out of that promise. And I quite literally trust her with my life.

So my annual checkup rolled around in June, and I casually mentioned to Doc that I needed the exam. She nodded and said she'd refer me to the local gastroenterology clinic. OK, no sweat, I thought. I'll have a couple of months before they can work me in. No need to think about it now, right?

The clinic called one day one fine day in July and left a message. I called back and talked to a very efficient nurse who wanted to know when we could schedule the exam. I was thinking sometime around mid-August at least -- more than a month away. She had an appointment in one week.

Hmmm. One week? Not what my naturally procrastinating mind -- and naturally terrified rear -- had in mind. But it had to be done by then, or I'd have to submit to another full physical similar to the one I'd just recently had at my doc's office. OK, fine. One week it is.

I wasn't terribly enthusiastic about the prep, particularly the "clear liquids only" diet the day before. As anyone who knows me is well aware, food and I are VERY close friends. I grew up in a classic Southern-style "food = love" family. Let me put it this way -- my wonderful 86-year-old grandmother recently called me to apologize because she felt she hadn't cooked enough the last time Heatherann and I came to visit her.

So as I said, food and I are very close. We have a lovely daily dialogue. Food listens and offers positive affirmations. I do most of the talking. And here we were, about to be separated for the better part of 48 hours. This provoked no small amount of anxiety on my part.

Even worse, I normally depend on at least one daily cappuccino, several cups of coffee with creamer and a few gallons of Diet Coke to get through my day. This little adventure required NO milk products, NO creamer, and horrifyingly, NO carbonated beverages for a full day. How can I gracefully back out of this? A rear guard action, if you will.

No dice. The schedule's set, and Heatherann knows about it, so I'm stuck. The clear liquids day rolls around. I get to have fat-free chicken broth for breakfast. Yum! You haven't lived until you've tried fat-free chicken broth at 7:30 a.m.

No cappuccino. No Diet Coke. No hope.

I remember to grab my lunch (more fat-free chicken broth! Yum!) on the way out the door to work, but forget the best part -- Jell-o. Left it in the fridge. Damn.

Got to work, managed to guzzle a cup of the office swill that passes for coffee, with nothing in it but artificial sweetener. It was enough to give fat-free chicken broth a good name. My coworkers in my office pod, knowing my status, wisely chose to give me a wide berth. In return, I managed not to push any of them down the nearby stairs.

Lunchtime arrives. I heat up my can of chicken broth (still fat-free!) in a mug and sip/slurp it at my desk. Meanwhile, my coworkers from throughout the office are heating up their own lunch in the office microwave -- in the kitchen. Which is 10 feet from my desk.

I had to escape the building for the lunch hour. Funny how you never notice EVERY SINGLE FREAKIN' fast food place and fine restaurant, and coffee shop, and quickie mart, until the day you can't have food from any of them. Not fun.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not really ravenous, nor am I delusional at this point. Frankly, I miss the coffee and Diet Coke more than the food for the most part. Of course that doesn't stop me from posting on my Facebook page that I would kill -- in cold blood, without remorse, possibly even cheerfully -- for a cheeseburger and Diet Coke.

Quitting time finally rolls around and I head home to dinner. Beef broth this time (fat-free!), and Jell-o for dessert. I never really appreciated before how satisfying Jell-o can be.

The next morning, aided by medicinal prep, the true adventure begins. To put it in bumper sticker terms, crap happens. And happens. And happens. Most people probably dread this part, but honestly, it wasn't bad. Trek to the bathroom, back to couch. Try not to trip over cats or the dog, trek to bathroom, back to couch. Repeat as necessary, keeping in mind that cats and dog occasionally move to a different part of the rug.

Then came the appointed hour. I had to pick up Heatherann at work because she had to be able to drive me home. For some reason, they don't want recently anesthetized folks driving themselves home -- especially in a VW.

We get to the office on time, only to learn that the doctor's running late, by at least an hour. And by the way, they don't have the forms I mailed back to them four days before. "Oh, it would have been better to bring them with you, rather than mail them," the ever-efficient receptionist said. Gee, it would have been nice if you had mentioned that on the instruction sheet instead of telling me to mail them to you.

Let us recap -- It's 2:30 Wednesday afternoon. No real food since Monday night. Nothing at all by mouth since 8 a.m. that day. Do you REALLY want to harass me about the paperwork? She manages to call the downtown office, and wonder of wonders, the forms are there.

Finally comes the magic moment. I'm ushered into a dressing room by a kindly nurse who tells me I can keep my sandals on, "and that's about it." Put the open-backed gown on, and leave it untied so that SHE can tie it when I come out. With the sandals, I can at least pretend I'm a Roman gladiator, right?

I do as she says, having a brief flash of embarrassment (wonderfully descriptive word, that). But then I realize she's seen more buns than the Pillsbury Doughboy, so I might as well let it all hang out. She ties the gown, then leads me to a gurney, where I lie back and wait.

Nurse Lisa comes in, introduces herself. She smiles and hands me the "informed consent" form. This is the form that states "We know that the odds of something going wrong during this procedure are roughly the same as your chances of getting run over by a beer truck being driven by an Amish driver who's just finished his 16-shot venti extra-dry cappuccino with whip, but the possibility exists, and we don't want to get sued." I sign, and Nurse Lisa and I chat briefly, then out of the blue:

OUCH! THAT IS DEFINITELY SOMETHING TRYING TO GO SOMEWHERE IT DOESN'T BELONG!

That's Nurse Lisa, attempting to find a spot in my slightly dehydrated hand for the I.V. After she tries in vain one more time, she calls in Nurse Raeann, who promptly gets the drip going.

Nurse Lisa is busy with the woman in the cubicle next to mine. She's encouraging the woman to perform a common bodily function. That's apparently a requirement before you can leave and go have dinner. Because the procedure injects air to enable the doc to see everything he needs to, you must break wind before you can break bread. The woman next door proves to be a fast learner.

Then she and Nurse Lisa start discussing food -- mashed potatoes, fried potatoes, pot roast, etc. I'm separated from this conversation only by an exam room curtain, so I hear every word. It's now 40 hours since I've had anything resembling solid food. I wonder if I could push them both down the stairs with an I.V. in my hand. Sadly, it's a single story building.

Nurse Raeann wheels me into the procedure room, where I meet Dave, the nurse-anesthetist. I don't realize it yet, but Dave is about to become my new best friend. Dave double checks my name and date of birth, then hands me a clipboard with another "informed consent" form. This is the "yes, we're giving you the same anesthetic that killed Michael Jackson, but we're monitoring you closely, and while you'll probably be fine, there is a very remote possibility it will kill you and we don't want to get sued" form. I sign.

Dave listens to my heart and lungs, then the doc comes in. He introduces himself, pokes my abdomen a bit, listens to my heart and lungs, and we're all set. I roll onto my left side, baring my backside to Doc, Nurse Raeann and Dave. I still have my sandals on, and wonder what a Roman gladiator would do in this situation. The lights go down -- how nice! -- very conducive to a nap. My pal Dave starts the propofol drip. I have just enough time to think "oh, here we go."

The next thing I know it's half an hour later, and my buddy Dave is telling me to wake up, the procedure is over. No pain, no discomfort, no anesthesia hangover at all. Life is good.

I'm wheeled back out to the room where I started this little adventure. I follow Nurse Lisa's instructions. Like the woman in the cubicle before I started, I prove to be a quick study.

My beloved Heatherann enters, and soon the doc comes in. He's all smiles and has good news -- no polyps, nothing to worry about. See you in 10 years.

Soon after that, I get dressed, and Heatherann and I hightail it out of there and head to dinner. Olive Garden never tasted so good.

Two things to keep in mind:

No. 1 -- If you go to Olive Garden, order the mixed grill. The rosemary on the steak and chicken is delightful and the roasted vegetables are delicious.

No. 2 -- Yes, my results were fine, giving me peace of mind. But before my exam started, Nurse Lisa told me a story about her own colonoscopy. She had one right before moving from Virginia to Florida. The docs found a large polyp that had to be removed. She's fine today, but she asked her doctor what would have happened if that hadn't been caught. "They said 'you don't want to know.'"

Think about it, folks. The test is NOT bad. Colon cancer is preventable this way. Preventable. I promise, you will not die of embarrassment. If you're "of a certain age," get your buns off the couch and into the doctor's office. You'll be glad you did -- and so will the people who love you.

And if you're lucky, as I was, your doc will give you a picture of the results, suitable for framing.

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