Bug Loved One To Get Checkup

I waited too long to have a colonoscopy.

I'm 56. It should have been done at 50. Or 40.

My mother was diagnosed with colon cancer at age of 64. She was given 2 1/2 years to live. She died less than a month after her 67th birthday.

Her mother died at 67, too. Of colon cancer.

Yes, heredity has a lot to do with it. That's why my wife, Suzanne, bugged me about it for years.

“When are you getting a colonoscopy?” Suz would ask.

“I will,” said this champion of procrastination. “I will.”

“WHEN?”

Finally, after a basic physical examination and with my doctor's referral, the day was set. My colonoscopy would be at the Digestive Health Center at St. Luke's Hospital on Monday, Aug. 31, 2009.

I had six weeks to think about it. Six weeks to digest information on the Internet. Six weeks to wake up early in the morning, restless and unable to fall asleep again. Six weeks to hear from friends who had undergone the procedure, had as many as five polyps removed, were given a clean bill of health. Six weeks to think about my mother, to miss the comfort of her voice, gone for 20 years last Feb. 10.

The pharmacist filled my prescription, handed me the gallon jug in a brown paper bag, asked if I had any questions. The look on his face conveyed sympathy. Friends had made it clear that “cleansing” is an unpleasant experience. He knew.

I picked up a small package of laxatives on my way out of the drugstore. I've never needed to take the stuff. Lucky me.

The day before my colonoscopy, I began the process. Four laxative pills at 10 a.m. Plenty of water. Nothing to eat. Mix up the cleansing solution. Stay busy cleaning out the garage, reading the newspaper, watching TV. No munching. At 6 p.m., drink a glass of the solution. Within 10 minutes, drink another glass. Do it for 1 1/2 hours. Visit the toilet every 10 minutes.

Sleep restlessly that night. No breakfast. Repeat the cleansing process first thing in the morning. Work a few Jumble puzzles while watching the clock. No lunch.

An hour before the 1:30 p.m. scheduled procedure, Suz and I ride the elevator to the fourth floor Digestive Health Center. We walk the dimly lit narrow hallway. From the check-in desk, a nurse in blue leads us to a private room with three chairs and one bed. I change into the hospital gown and robe, lie down on the bed, wait. They say the worst is over, but I'm not sure. The unknown looms. Only with diagnosis will it be over.

The nurse takes my right hand to start an IV in the wrist. “Do you have to use my right hand?” I ask. “Is it going to hurt? I have bowling Thursday night. Is it going to hurt later? No, I haven't given blood. No, I've never been sedated. Will I be ‘out' before you take me away? Will I be awake when you return me here?”

Ouch. The pin prick for the IV hurts for an instant. The clear tube runs across my chest. This is only to get it started. The sedative comes later. “Is the doctor here yet? How long will it last? When do I get the results?”

“I've never heard anybody ask so many questions,” Suz says to me. To the nurse she says, “He's a reporter,” as if that explains everything.

As the nurse leaves, I close my eyes. I'm calm. What will be will be.

The door flies open, a nurse in a hurry. She runs in, flips the side rails up, says “Here we go” as she guides the bed through the doorway.

“Bye,” I say to Suz. My wife waves goodbye.

The wind blows up my gown, through what hair I have left, whistles past my ears. We race down the hall to the examination room. “I bet you stay in great shape doing this,” I say to the nurse. “Yes,” she says with a chuckle, wheeling me into a parking space among bright overhead lights, swing-arm monitors, a pair of nurses at stations ready to go.

“How many of these things do you guys do?” I ask. I can't help myself.

“Thirty a day,” a nurse says. “One is scheduled every half-hour.”

Wow.

They attach three monitoring wires to my chest, insert an oxygen tube beneath my nostrils, roll me onto my left side, adjust my gown. A nurse double-checks my height and weight, measures the sedative in a syringe, feeds it into the IV.

Drowsily, I close my eyes. I feel a slight push “down there.” I fall asleep. Sweet dreams.

Suz laughs. She holds her cell phone camera in my face. “You were snoring,” she says. “You were babbling. You were funny. Want to hear?”

“Whaaat?” I feel no pain. “Wheeere?” I am so drowsy. “Not now.” Where did the time go?

As the numbness dissipates, I shake my head, stand, dress in street clothes.

It's over. All but the end. The diagnosis.

My stomach feels full, yet I'm so hungry. My head feels light, I wouldn't want to drive. My mind feels cloudy, I try not to worry. But where is the doctor? Why is he taking so long? What could be wrong?

Finally, the doctor. He is smiling. I think. He talks quickly.

Did I hear him right? One polyp removed? Unlikely cancer? You did good? Back in five years?

“I knew you'd be OK,” my wife says. Suz grins. She squints. Her green eyes sparkle.

It wasn't too late. “I love you.”