Fantastic Voyage

Though I’m constantly looking for ways to deny it, as a living organism I can no longer deny now being situated somewhere in the middle of what they call, 'middle age". 

But while I don't necessarily look it-and certainly don't like it- with the only other alternative being an extended rest at six feet under, I guess I'm forced to live with it. Of course I never gave a second thought about mid-life when I was young.But time has a way of creeping up until you realize- sometimes suddenly- you're not so young anymore. Along with this realization,  as with a middle aged car I’m learning this now middle aged body needs preventative maintenance and tune-ups, too; just to keep the 'ol engine and other working parts, well....working.

One of those generally recommended methods is the routine physical I took this summer (see "How Not so Sweet It Is"; blogpost 8.25.11). It was during that uncomfortable 45 minute session that, for good measure, the good doctor suggested I was at an age where I should consider putting myself through one more unpleasant procedure. Oh, gee, I wonder what it is? Old enough to not need a hint, I knew exactly where he was going; the doctor was referring to the cozy, cuddly colonoscopy, the butt of most mid-life health related jokes (at least when it’s not happening to you).

However, the physical was in July and I fretted every day for three weeks after whether I should even made the call. Why put myself though it? I mean, who needs that? I’m fine…right?? Right. But knowing for sure would be make me feel even more right. Still it took me till early August before I finally got the nerve to make an appointment, and even then I  delayed the event as long as they'd let me. And in the meantime, I made myself sick with worry. What if…what if they find something??...

It didn't help that late one night I accidentally came across an ESPN documentary on the great football coach Vince Lombardi. Though interesting, it was disturbing when they began to chronicle the man's mortal demise. Larger than life and with an image to uphold, though he knew something might be wrong, the film made it clear the Coach was too prideful or embarrassed to undergo the same process I had coming up- until it was too late. And even after they carved out a third of his intestines, Coach Lombardi died a painful death anyway and at a very early age, close to my own.

Not long after that, I learned of a former colleague who'd been recently diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. So, convinced there was nothing to gain but very bad news, as my own appointment date at the internal medicine outpatient center drew closer, I convinced myself, "I'm not goin'." But unable to stop time, November 15 came up on the calendar anyway. And though I knew my number was probably up too- just like Vince Lombardi’s- I went.

Yet I was amazed to be feeling almost okay about it all till 2:00 the afternoon before. That's when I had to stop eating. No solid food again until after the procedure. Hoping to load up on carbs and calories prior to that, I was betrayed by my own hyper-nervousness. I was sick to my stomach and not very hungry the rest of the time. Just as well I was on limited rations the rest of the time; light meals- no wheat, no sugar, no seeds. That was tolerable I suppose, but they also denied any alcohol to mellow me out, or Advil, to stave off the hunger headache that began biting me before the day was out.

Not a very big eater on any other day, by 2:30 that day I could've eaten an elephant. Maybe two.

Also, on any other day, I would be working till 7 or 7:30. That night however, I had to be home no later than 7 so I could start the yummy medicine I had to swallow in preparation for the next morning's fantastic voyage.  So, I left work at 5:45 with stuff undone, getting hungry and wishing to be going anywhere but home... like maybe to McDonald's. And I don’t even like fast food. But that night, I could've bought a dozen Big Mac's at the drive-thru, then gone inside and bought ten more at the counter; and downed them all. Of course I'd never do that under any circumstances. But when you're prohibited from eating anything, anything and everything sounds delicious.

But I resisted the temptation to stop at any of the ridiculously large number of eating establishments along the way between work and home- I think I counted somewhere around a hundred- and got into the house at 6:40. I was still unsettled about the next day, but otherwise, except for wanting to munch on something, the headache had leveled off and I was surviving okay.

And feeling okay, it seemed extremely contradictory to then deliberately take something guaranteed to make me sick, which the preparation medicine assuredly would. In fact on the instruction sheet it said, in so many words, this will make you sick. But that's what I had to do. Home no more than five minutes, Amy mixed the God-awful concoction and poured me the first dose. Bottoms up.

Holy crap!

It's bad enough what they plan to do to you the next day. But you think they'd come up with a way to at least make the pre-game potion a little more palatable. But nooooooooooo!  This stuff was dreadful. It had kind of a lemony taste, but that was pushed back and beaten into submission by the 10 million milligrams of sodium they added to it. And I had to drink a large 8 ounce glass of the stuff every 15 minutes for an hour. Then they wanted me to chase it with 16 more ounces of fluid, anything except booze or coffee.

Within the hour, I felt like I'd swallowed half the Pacific Ocean.

However the instructions said the medicine should start "working" within 90 minutes of full consumption. But by 8:30, then 9, then 10:00 nothing had happened. Except I was still waterlogged and getting scared. I told Amy, "There's something wrong. It's not working. I must have something down there the size of a bowling ball. I'm going to die."

Amy went to bed about 11, after constantly reassuring me everything was fine and the process would be underway soon. Easy for her to say; she'd had a nice dinner and was going to get to sleep 8 hours. I hadn't eaten anything since 2 pm- not that I could by then anyway, even if I'd wanted to- and in all likelihood was probably going to be up all night. And I knew that, one way or the other, the worst was still to come. At least I was right about that. The worst was only just beginning.

Bloated and feeling like crap, the solution began its work around 11:30. I may have drifted into a short quarter hour nap at one point, but didn't sleep again the rest of the night. My body wouldn't allow it. It was busy. Then at 2:30 a.m, I had to begin the second hour long round of solution. And in contrast to the first round, the second round began working right away...and working ...and working....

But as if the stuff was on a deadline, about 20 minutes before we had to leave for the doctor's office, and seemingly several pounds lighter, it stopped working. After the brutally long night, though, I didn't care. By then I was so dehydrated, washed out and worn out figured the procedure itself couldn't possibly be any worse than the preparation for it. In fact, they could've told me they wanted to do a lobotomy and a couple of root canals too, and I'd have simply nodded and signed the release forms. Just get it over with.

The procedure was scheduled for 8:30 am. We arrived at the out-patient center at 7:45 and they took me in around 8. After slipping into a very unattractive gown, the first nurse asked how I was feeling and had me sign some stuff. Her name was Kendra and I told her I felt like crap, was exhausted and if signing the consent forms would hasten my departure- either from their custody or this world- just tell me where.

Kendra chuckled and quickly put me at ease. I’d had a cold two weeks earlier, was still getting over it, and asked her what would happen if I coughed while they were exploring my insides. She said as long as I didn't have a fever, I had nothing to worry about. “But try not to cough, anyway”, she smiled at me, clearly making a joke. I smiled too, and though I wasn’t completely sure she’d addressed my question, tired as I was it was enough to put my battered mind at ease.

When all the forms were signed, Kendra took my blood pressure and other vitals and escorted me to a bed where I was to remain until it was my turn. This sweet angel of mercy then covered me in two heated blankets, propped my pillow up and gave me a Sports Illustrated to read. After she left, I could've gladly stayed sequestered in that peaceful holding room all day. It was quiet, I was warm and the topsy-turvy ride my insides had been on all night had come to a stop. I felt fine. It was 8:25. Five minutes till ‘show time’ and knowing that, I was quickly no longer relaxed. I began thinking about Vince Lombardi and fear began to creep in, and instead of reading any more of the SI, I started praying.

Most of my brain knew nothing was wrong with me. All along, my only symptoms had been acute trepidation. But I had no idea what was coming next. I mostly knew this was just a routine check-up; that I was healthy. Yet there's always that shred of doubt, that mystery of the unknown, where clear reasoning tends to unravel. It's that spot in the grey matter, where every symptom, real or imagined, gets magnified and blown up from nothing into something- something it could be, but in all likelihood isn't. Whatever the technical term for it, there's enough reasonable doubt to turn to God.

Fortunately, as I work my way through the aging process (semi-gracefully), I'm learning to do that more and more. I don't hold on so hard anymore. Though I still have to remind myself I'm not in control, I don't have to remind myself quite as often as when I was younger. I get it now- that whatever happens is really not up to me (as if it ever was); it's always up to Him. To some, relinquishing the reigns probably sounds like a cop-out. But  when I really give in to it, and sincerely acknowledge it's God that holds my life and fate in His hands -not me and there's nothing I can do about it- it actually makes me feel more free and at ease than when I forget and try to retain control. Now if I could only stop forgetting.

But anyway, that's what I was thinking and praying about as they finally wheeled me in for my procedure, five minutes late.

The room was darkened, with lots of tubes and monitors. The doctor was at a desk looking over paperwork. There were two assistants, one overseeing the equipment, the other overseeing me. She made conversation while preparing an I.V., asked how I was doing (again, why do they ask that when they kind of already know how you've been doing?), and whether I had any preference for the music they had playing. I told her to put on the ballgame. Of course, there was no ballgame and we both laughed, though me more nervously than her.

 I think I settled on some soft jazz, but don't really remember. All I really remember is looking at the monitors and seeing my blood pressure bounce from 125 over 79, to 118 over 72, and the big clock above it registering 8:40 a.m. Good night.

After that, Amy and somebody else were helping me into the car to go home. It was 9:15. What, we're done? I know it was a sunny morning, but my head was still in a fog and clouded any memory of the drive home, although when I glanced at my watch coming up the driveway it said 9:40. No way. Really? It'd only been about two hours and change since we’d home and now we were back? Really? I was still loopy but thought we'd been gone a lot longer than that. 

After that though, I have only wispy memories of sleeping off and on the rest of the day. So, there's some time in there that I have absolutely no accounting of, or know what happened to me during it. Reminds me of some benders in college, though I recall those times being a lot more fun.

Bottom line though, in medical terms, I'm what they call, "clean". I had to ask Amy two or three times because I kept forgetting, but the doctor says I'm just fine, no pathology and nothing to worry about; no runs, no hits, no errors. The doc says to just keep eating that high-fiber diet.

All that to say, after months of dreading it, this Jules Verne-like journey to the center of my insides was a good thing to do- is a good thing to do. It's not a party and nothing to look forward to, but I can't begin to describe the elation of coming through it unscathed and assured that all is well. And on this Thanksgiving weekend, as I thank God for good friends, good family and a good job, I am also very thankful for a clean bill of health. And even more grateful I don't have to go through this again for at least five more years.

Maybe by then they'll figure out a less disgusting way to achieve the same happy ending.