...And The Camera Zooms In - All The Way In

I recently had my first colonoscopy.

Ta-daa!

Ok, I admit we're not talking about coming home with a Pulitzer here, but I'm still pretty darned proud of myself.

For those of you who may be unfamiliar with the procedure, a colonoscopy involves doctors shoving a television camera up the old pooter so they can have a look around. They are looking for early (hopefully) signs of colorectal cancer. This is a disease that, according to the American Cancer Society, kills 50,000 people in the United States each year - one every 9.3 minutes, although I'm not really sure how they get it paced out nice and even like that.

Apparently, if the doctors can find pre-cancerous "polyps" or catch the cancer in its early stages, colorectal cancer is pretty treatable, and your chances of survival are good. If they don't catch it early - well, one every 9.3 minutes...

And so a lot of doctors recommend that pretty much everyone over 50 should get a colonoscopy, especially if there is some family history of cancer.

Now on general principle, I've always felt that having things, especially television cameras, shoved up my old pooter was worth avoiding at any cost, so I've been dodging colonoscopies for years - to the point where I was arguably risking my life.

This year, I guess I finally just ran out of excuses.

The first thing that happened after I scheduled my colonoscopy was that a nice young woman called me to ask some questions about my colon, my bowel movements, and a lot of other medical issues. She was a good listener, and before too long I found myself telling her things about my bowel movements that I've never shared with anyone before.

Then she gave me a little pep talk and told me that a packet of information I would need to review before the procedure would be coming in the mail. This made me a little nervous, because it meant that I was facing the first medical test in my life that I would have to study for.

It turns out that the information packet just provided detailed instructions on how to flush out my pipes, from palate to pooter. I was supposed to dine on only clear liquids the night before, then spend the next morning drinking a whole gallon of a special solution. This wasn't terrible, but I can tell you that it's not all that easy to drink a whole gallon of something you really like, much less something that tastes kind of like water out of an old canteen.

Anyway, this gallon of stuff pretty much shot through me like water through a fire hose, and it soon became apparent that I was rinsed as clean as I was going to get. This gave me a great sense of accomplishment, and left me walking a little bit bow-legged.

When we got to the clinic, they took me into a little room and had me change into one of those hospital gowns that is basically a great big bib with armholes. I stretched out on a really comfortable bed on wheels and relaxed while a very pleasant nurse started an IV and commented on how nice I looked in a great big bib with armholes.

Before long they wheeled me into a bigger room with a lot of equipment and a large television monitor. Another very pleasant nurse injected the anesthetic into my IV while she explained what was going to happen next. By the time all the anesthetic had been injected, I realized that I didn't really much care what was going to happen next, and that this nurse was even better than "very pleasant" - that she was in fact the nicest person I ever met!

Then the doctor came in, and it turns out he was the nicest person I ever met!

Everything after that is a little vague. I remember watching the exploration of a really cool-looking cave on the television monitor, and asking the nurse if it reminded her of the old movie Journey To The Center Of The Earth. I remember the doctor telling me that he had found a polyp, and watching him snip it off with a little lasso thingy, while I sang,

"Sixteen tons, and what do 'ya get
"Another day older, and deeper in debt..."

And then after a while they were finished, and they wheeled me, possibly singing the Rum-Tum-Tugger song from Cats, out to a recovery room, where I explained to my wife that the doctor and nurse were the nicest people I ever met, even though neither of them recalled seeing Journey To The Center Of The Earth.

On the way home I tried to get my wife to stop so I could buy her a diamond bracelet and a helicopter.

About a week after my colonoscopy I got a call from my doctor telling me that the tests on the polyp they removed were negative, and that my colon was in great shape. This was the best news I could hope for.

But then he went on to tell me that everything looked so good that I wouldn't need another colonoscopy for ten years.

Phooey. I was just getting the hang of this deal.

Copyright © 2006, Michael Ball