Aaah, the Colonoscopy.
Such a common procedure but if you’ve had to endure one, you will understand
my angst. The procedure itself is not as painful as it may sound…it’s the days and hours leading up to the procedure
that curls toes and makes the sphincter clench involuntarily.
This simple but invasive procedure, the colonoscopy, is a
photo-shoot in your waste management system.
This is usually necessary if you’ve had some additional hues or spatter
pattern changes to your rectal expulsion.
Another reason for this spectacular filming of brown landscape is a
history of disease located in the waste chute.
Armed with the necessary equipment (multiple sachets) and an
instruction sheet, I was sent home to plan the most uncomfortable hours leading
up to the procedure. My actual
appointment was mid-afternoon on a Friday.
This meant that the internal wash must begin on the Tuesday when the
food ingested changed dramatically from the gastronomical delights I usually
bring to the table to a boring and tasteless journey that made my upper lip
twerk in an Elvis-esque manner. “Thankyouverymuch”. Devoid
of colour, fibre and flavour; my senses were offended from the get go. Unfortunately, clear fluids did not include
wine – alcohol was off the list. Boo!
Then, the special laxative
drinks came into play the day before the invasion. Oh my L-o-r-d! I was advised by the Specialist to take this
day off, as I would be frequently hosing the porcelain and must not venture far
from the throne. What an understatement! The first little sachet was like an appetiser
for the bowel. Designed to stimulate the
expulsion gently, I held my breath and sculled this first drink followed by a
clear lemonade chaser. Shudder. Nothing happened. I remained near the toilet for a full hour
with absolutely no response. That’s
probably because I had been starving myself for days and there was NOTHING IN
MY BOWEL TO SHIT! An hour later I made
up the first sachet of Picoprep and placed it in the refrigerator to chill
(apparently it’s easier to ingest if chilled…no it aint!). I commenced
the consumption of this vile fluid, a glass at a time (the instruction sheet
advised to consume it all within an hour but not in one go). Jesus H Christ on a popsicle stick. This stuff was HORRENDOUS! I managed to down the first glass, followed
by some heavy retching over the sink, but managed to keep it down. My bottom jaw is shuddering and my mouth is
filling with saliva at the memory of this revolting solution. I waited a full half an hour and still got no
response from my lazy bowel. Grrrr,
annoying shitless tube!
Never one to remain idle, I decided to climb a ladder and
mend the curtains. We have high ceilings
and so the windows are also high – and it was as I was on the top rung of the
ladder getting all up in the curtain’s business when my stomach made a slight
lurch. I froze for a nano-second before
it became quite clear that a mass exodus of some description was imminent. I went from standing on that top rung of the
ladder to the floor in one graceful fluid leap, miraculously not blowing a hole in my pants or spray painting the back of them on that short leap; and with my butt cheeks clenched
as taught as a fish's arse, propelled myself down the hall and managed to make
it to the commode in time pour my guts into the toilet. I will mention at this point that the painful
cramping and cold sweats that I was expecting were absent but the fluid was
expelled at great speed, sounding much like a member of the equine class was urinating
in the bowl. Once empty, usual
functionality was restored until twenty minutes later I had to have the second glass of that vile fluid. Pinching my nose, I downed the
fluid as fast as I could but vomited half of it back into the glass. The retching continued for a few minutes
before I gingerly walked to the couch and collapsed into it, fighting the
shuddering jaw and urge to purge, my stomach lurching about behind my ribs.
I managed to restore my breathing to its usual rhythm before
I was forced to sprint again to the toilet as fluid burst forth from my
backside at an alarming rate. Oh Dear
God, I had only consumed two thirds of the first sachet – I still had to finish
this lot and then go another whole round the following day. It was at this point that I started to talk
to myself out loud, to mentally slap myself on the back and tell myself that I
could DO this. Enter The Captain.
A HUGE smile adorned his face as he asked me how the ‘cleansing’
was going. I groaned and mumbled
something about the vile liquid. He
energetically blurted “Isn’t it great?
You’re so lucky. I love the clean
out. I wish I could do it once a month”. I looked at him like he had taken leave of
his senses. Who would want to do this to themselves on
purpose? He is a special kind of
unit. He watched with a smile on his face as I
downed the last of the first sachet, throwing half of it back up as I had the
previous one. He was taking great pleasure
in my discomfort. The retching was interrupted
by the need to pee through my backside again so I hiccupped and belched in a
most unladylike fashion as I briskly rushed to the latrine. Blow it out your arse you say? I say ‘pour it out your arse’. Oh, I felt so wretched. It’s always rather disconcerting to purge
into the loo then turn around to find only clear liquid in it. The brain does not compute!
Finally it was over for the day and I drank water for the
remainder of the day to keep my fluids up but thankfully, had no more runny bum…
for now. I went to bed early, reserving
my strength for the onslaught the following day.
I was allowed a glass of water on the morning of the arse
fisting as long as it was before 9am.
After that, the consumption of sachet two and expulsion of all things
fluid were the rest of my day. I was
finding it more and more difficult to down the liquid shit-inducer and by the
last one, hurled the whole lot back up into the sink. I am reasonably sure my arsehole actually
made it half way up my oesophagus. It’s
okay, within ten minutes it was hanging back out of my arse again as I
race-horse pissed whatever fluid I had left in my body back out. I was surprised to note that the top of my
head actually hadn’t collapsed, as I had expected.
I hadn’t eaten in two days but surprisingly, was not hungry
but I had the mother of all headaches caused by dehydration. I couldn’t wait to come back out the other
side of this so I could suck a tap dry and float my cerebrum in some fluid
again.
A few hours later The Captain dropped me off at the surgery
and wished me well. He still had that sinister
smile on his face but he had been in these shoes before and so I had no
recourse.
I was taken into a room, handed a monstrously large paper
bag with my name on it and a gown and some very sexy white knee highs
(compression stockings?) and a pair of what looked like blue shower caps for my
feet. Woah!
Don’t let The Captain spy me in this get-up, he would most likely lose all control and just take me in the
waiting room. There were two other
people in the waiting room with the same attire. I lost myself in my novel until the nurse
called my name. They took my blood
pressure, asked me a series of questions in which I was expected to describe
the colour and consistency of my shit during the past few weeks and then sent me
back out to the waiting room.
Careful to keep my gown closed, I spied the girl opposite
stifling a giggle. I’m not sure if she
was embarrassed to be sitting there nude with nothing but a gown on, if she’d
spied my sexy get-up or if she had already had a toke on the gas; but she was
bopping up and down like a loon and giggling like a little girl. Jesus, I felt like I was in the nut house and
damned if my stupid mouth didn’t quirk up at the sides and smile right back at
her. The old man on the other side of the room also
had a big-arsed grin on his face. I
wanted in on the joke! The nurse called
my name and I was ushered down the corridor and into the room where I was asked
to climb up onto the bed. If I was 6ft 3
this would be fine but I’m 5ft nothing and the bed came up to my tits. Jesus!
I took an almighty leap and gave the room full or nursing staff a
twisted smile of another kind but missed my mark and almost tore myself a new
one as one cheek gripped the bed but the other slid off. The bed bounced into the nurse’s stomach and
she quickly stamped her foot onto something at the base (the brake perhaps?) to
stop the bed from rolling. The male
nurse came over and lowered the bed so I could climb up without exercising the
vertical splits. They rolled me on my
side with my bare arse pressed up against the side of the bed and the anaesthetist inserted
the cannula into my wrist. I felt
something cold and blinked and then my eyes focused on the nurse's face before
me.
“How do you feel?” she queried. I feel great, thanks. Hey wait, are we in a different room? Where did everybody go, I was wondering.
“The Doctor will be in
to see you shortly to discuss her findings.
While you wait, would you like a cup of tea and something to eat?”. Wait, what?
It’s over? When the fuck did that
happen? Like a small animal distracted
by something shiny, I felt my stomach rumble and decided I could absolutely
murder a sandwich
.
.
The Gastroenterologist came and explained her findings
blurting out “it’s not cancer!” excitedly.
We were all so very worried that
my diagnosis was going to be grim and whatever else followed was just blah,
blah blah. She made an appointment on
the spot for me to meet her in a fortnight in her rooms to discuss
treatment. At this point I was
levitating above the bed and weak with joy (and lack of food).
The sandwiches and tea arrived. The bouquet coming off that small little
plate of quartered sandwiches on white bread with mustard, ham, cheese and
tomatoes was intoxicating and the most delightful thing to touch my lips in
five days. I savoured every mouthful and
inhaled every morsel. I caught movement
out of the corner of my eye and saw the giggle-pot sitting in a seat near my
bed with a stupid grin still plastered to her face. She abruptly started commenting on the
sandwiches and I wondered if she was waiting for the special blue bus to
collect her and take her away to a special place where she could lick the
windows in ecstasy. The nurse collected
my empty tea cup and spotless plate and offered to call the Captain to collect
me and take me home.
All the way home I dreamily planned what I would eat for
dinner. Captain Fantastic asked if I had
received the ‘all clear’. I happily
announced, “Well it’s not cancer so I'm really happy.” He looked perplexed, “Of course not”, like
the thought had never entered his head.
She told me of the condition but I could not recollect the name let
alone what it was. I would tackle that
one in a fortnight when I saw her next.
Now, I have a terrible habit of wishing ill upon people who
shit me. Nothing life threatening, of
course, just a little discomfort for the rest of their lives. I have been known to wish a severe case of
knob-rot to assail the genitals of child
molesters or gonorrhoea of the throat afflict rapists. Paedophiles, rapists, wife beaters, child abusers and those
who are cruel to animals receive my harshest ill-wishes. For people who shit me in the traffic, or just
generally piss me off, I wish them a
disease in the arse. I don’t recall how
this all came about but as long as I can remember, I have been quietly casting
spells and ill-wishes on arseholes. Imagine my surprise when I was diagnosed by
the Gastroenterologist with Ulcerative Colitis – a disease in the arse. How the hell did this happen? It turns out this isn’t just some
inflammation that can be ‘dealt with’, it’s an ongoing disease that requires
the intake of six tablets daily for the rest of my life. Buggar!
It’s not Cancer, and for that I am eternally grateful, but as I look to
the future and see the vast expanse of my years containing multiple
colonoscopies and that vile horse-pissing arse-purge inducing liquid, I feel a
desperate fear for my state of mental health.
Colonoscopies shit me!
Doona
