WARNING: THIS ARTICLE QUALIFIES AS TMI, or “TOO MUCH INFORMATION.”
IF YOU ARE SQUEEMISH, AVERT THINE PRECIOUS EYEBALLS.
About eight years ago, I lived in London, England. It was a lovely time, as long as I didn’t need to go to the hospital, as my experiences there were bad ones. In this particular case, my doctor thought I should have a colonoscopy, due to familial history. Ok, I thought, take care of yourself. I don’t remember if I needed to not eat or drink horrible fluid beforehand, I think they just said “show up at half twelve” which is what I did. I donned the traditional flimsy gown, the opening at the backside now making sense. From here on I really should have asked more questions, but hindsight (no pun intended) is 20/20. They marched me off to a room, positioned between two other rooms, more like a hallway, really. They asked…could a few students watch? I nervously said yes, as long as they weren’t doing any of the actual bungholing (not the technical term). They gave me some sort of drug, an injectable or a gas, I really don’t know, which was supposed to make me aware, but not really care, what was going on around me.
As I slid into the half stupor I realized there was more of a crowd than a person or two, and that people kept coming and going through the various louvered doors, with action parallel to that of my local White Spot’s kitchen. “Um, why are there so many people around?” I slurred, to no one in particular, knowing my bum was on display. And then, “Heyyyyy, that hurts. It isn’t supposed to, right? Oww. No really. I think you should stop that. “ From here, the drug kicks in more, but I am still caring as I am aware-ing. “Nope. No more, I’m done, that’s quite enough..” I am trying to be polite without actually yelling obscenities. Finally, “TIME TO STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING,” in my firmest voice. “All done anyway,” says the doctor who was ignoring me, as several people come and go, perhaps resting serving trays on my ass, I don’t know.
My husband comes to pick me up, asks me how I am doing. “Fine,” I say smiling. “No problem.” I am aware that I am lying but am unable to control the smiling. “Did it hurt?” he asks, concerned. “Oh yes, terribly,” I answer, still smiling. I keep smiling on our walk home, as I stare at turnips in the grocery store, as I stare at normal people on the street who haven’t just had tubes jammed up their backside.
I tell my mom this story years later. “Oh no, she said, That is not how it is supposed to go. You aren’t supposed to FEEL IT,” she says, concerned for my past pain. “I guess your father did have the same thing….”What? What was that?” I ask, knowing a bit of very important information is glancing off the conversation. “Oh, your Dad. He had strange drug resistances, sometimes painkillers didn’t work at all.”
Wheels begin to click in my head. I think of oral surgery at thirteen. I think of this goddamn colonoscopy, where they didn’t listen to me. I think of the birth of my first child, and the shot before the stitches. “ You need to give me another shot,” I told the Hospital’s “fix up this mess” seamstress. “I can still feel that.” “Oh! You aren’t supposed to”, she said, quickly administering another round.
So, lo and behold, things are explained, that was not the normal experience.
Colonoscopy, TAKE 2
Fast forward to a few months ago. “You should really have one,” my doctor says. I grumble about rather dying, but he shoots me a look, and I give in and make the appointment, and tell anyone who will listen, the specialist, the secretary, etc., that they need to give me twice the drugs this time, that I am terrified, actually, and do they know that there are approximately 1,000 nerve endings in the anus?
This is how Canada does it.
1) Buy ungodly expensive colon cleansing kit from the pharmacy. Canadians are nothing if not polite, so bum-holes should be too.
2) Don’t eat for the whole day before the procedure, and the day of. Still manage to make everyone else food. Sit and watch them eat, and salivate.
3) At the time indicated, don three little yellow pills. You will see this fluorescent yellow colour later, but not in a pill form, just as an unearthly glow gleaming from the inside of the toilet bowl. Do not be alarmed. I’m sure it’s not radioactive. (?) Possibly a by-product of Mr. Clean.
4) Wake up at 3 A.M. to the sounds of a cartoon witch’s cauldron/hydraulic pump. Bloop BLOObbarggggGG BlOOP. That is your stomach. Go empty it now, for approximately ½ hour. (This is sometimes known in our house as “peeing from your butt”).
5) Upon wakening, drink a mixture of powder and water, four glasses of it, within an hour. A few hours later do this again. Be within feet of the toilet at all times. There is only a three-second grace period between the warning signal and the avalanche. I am not kidding you.
6) Go and find some flushable moist wipes that you bought for the kids. Now you need them. Any kindness you can show your own butt is appreciated.
7) Take a taxi to the hospital, try not to whimper, you are an adult, damnit.
8) Don a wonderful arse-open smock and tall green socks, that have a seam up the front, for people who have feet shaped like a pencil. Confusing, that.
9) Get wheeled in to an actual room! Hooray! Remind the doctor that you need lots of drugs this time, LOTS.
10) Injection, and then…what? It’s over? Nothing to remember, nada. Who knows what could have happened in this time, really, but you are given the all clear and go home, this time smiling for a reason. Whew!!
And there you have it folks, easy-peasy lemon squeezy. The more I think about it, the more I think the people in London were just students who gave me a random drug and used a beer bong. Thank god there wasn’t You Tube. Oh well, have a colonoscopy in Canada, if you can.