I had avoided this invasive exam for seven years. I was scheduled for the procedure last year, but two heart stents delayed it. But this year, there was no recourse.
Call it the seven-year itch without a tryst, romantic liaison, even Marilyn Monroe. The only itch I’d be scratching was on my bottom; it was time for the often-lampooned colonoscopy.
I had heard all the jokes from my golf buddies:
“Tell your doctor to write Mary a note just to confirm your head is not stuck up there.’’’
“You should see that Irish doctor – Colin O’Scopy.’’
“Make sure to pay promptly so your bill isn’t in arrears.’’
These guys were about as funny as the purging prep the night before.
On the serious side, despite my inflated ego telling me I’m invincible, I face the same risks as any adult. Men’s chances of developing colorectal cancer are one in 23. For women, chances are one in 26.
If the doctor detects cancer, it’s not a death sentence. If the cancer has spread to surrounding tissues or organs, the five-year survival rate is 72 percent. If the cancer spreads to distant parts of the body, the survival rate drops to 13 percent.
Words to the wise – undergo the exam.
This procedure always seems like an ordeal. Drinking preparation until you’re bloated. Rumbling in your stomach. Running to the bathroom. Interminable waiting — there seemingly aren’t enough Words With Friends games on your phone.
I made the situation worse by botching the directions. The clinic instructed you to mix two bottles of prep chemicals with a gallon of water. Drink two quarts of the solution at night followed by two 16-ounce glasses of water. Before bed, my molars were floating.
In the morning, I checked the manufacter’s instructions. “Mix the 6-ounce bottle with 10 ounces of water. Upon consuming it, drink two 16-ounce glasses of water.’’ So simple even a 2-year-old trapped in a 66-year-old’s body could follow that.
The hardest part for me was being caged. Once you drink the preparation, you feel like you should carry a fire truck sign: REMAIN 500 FEET BACK. You can’t leave the house. You fear explosive flatulence. A buddy had relayed the story of playing golf after starting a purge. It made four-putting a green seem benign.
Upon arrival at the clinic, the procedure seemed a breeze. I was whisked into a holding room, donned the surgical johnny (gown with an open back), didn’t moon anyone, and started my stand-up routine laying down (again, the johnny).
The nurse recorded my vitals, reviewed my medications and explained the examination. We laughed over the term anus. “As a veteran fourth- and fifth-grade teacher, I referred to the planet Uranus as YER-uh-nus. You can’t say (yer-A-nus) in front of fourth-grade boys.’’ She thought of her third-grade son and bellylaughed.
The exam was a piece of cake. The doctor asked about golf and refereeing as the anesthesia was administered. Before I could explain the new high school basketball rule on flopping, he went polyp hunting while I visited La-La land for about 30 minutes, then woke up in my holding room. The doctor popped in to say everything was fine.
The rest of the day was a scrimmage to see who was in control. My driver, who has doubled as my common-sense instructor of 39 years, might have won:
Q. “Do I really need to ride out in a wheelchair?’’
A. “Yes, it’s policy.’’
Q. “I’m starved. Can we stop somewhere for a burger?’’
A. “The aftercare sheet states no greasy foods.’’
Q. “Can you hold my elbow and I’ll do my feeble-man walk into the supermarket?’’
A. “No.’’
Q. “I’m feeling pretty nimble. Should I show you my basketball defensive slide?’’
A. “No.’’
Q. “I feel good enough to drive. Where are my car keys?’’
A. “The doctor said wait 12 hours. I’ve hidden them.’’
Q. “I’ve just been through a major medical procedure. Does this mean there will be pity sex?’’
A. No response … only a glare.
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
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