Friday: My Most Revealing Post Ever (Note The Use Of A Colon)

There are so many ways to start this post, none of them mature, so let's just get it out of the way because shit's about to get real around here. For years I've been nagging my doctor to schedule me for a colonoscopy because my uncle passed away from colon cancer at 40, but my doctor said I could wait until I was 50. The thing is, I didn't want to wait. They say that death begins in the colon. Now, I'm not sure who "they" are, but that's a pretty shitty thing to say. Not that I necessarily want a camera snaked up my bum, but I also know that shit happens. 

Everyone who's ever had 5 feet of surgical tubing inserted into their colon will tell you that the prep you have to do the night before is the worst part, and I am not about to argue that point. (Seriously though--it's 5 feet; I asked.) I jokingly thought I would live-blog the event, or at least do a mock live blog, so I took this pic of me with the mixture of the stuff you have to drink before I even tasted it. Here I am perky, trying to be cute, happy if a little hangry from having to fast for the entire day. Looking back on this pic I see what an asshole I was being, no pun intended, because...

The stuff you have to drink is heinous. Like the spit of a mean person heinous. And you have to drink 2 liters of mean person spit within 2 hours, which basically means you're chugging something you can barely choke down. (Pay no attention to the unintentional placement of Zoey's chalk drawing behind me.)

After this picture, i.e. after the very first glass, everything went dark. As in the mean person spit started to work, and holy fire hose, people. I think we can all agree that my trying-to-be-funny idea to "live blog" the event was beyond fucking stupid. There are simply no words to describe what occurred in my bathroom for the next 8 hours, except to say that Bryan slept on the couch that night and there was a point sometime past midnight that I thought for reals that I was probably going to die from the sheer velocity of it all. I mean, if I didn't shit myself forward, cracking my head on the tile floor, then surely there was a very real possibility of me falling off the toilet because I was so dizzy from the medicine and the not eating. And the shitting. Did I mention the shitting? 

You guys, believe me when I say I am someone that has gone 4 decades without admitting to ever having gone poop. So the fact that I am even writing this post is a testament to a.) my absolute disbelief that colonoscopies are a thing we should all do, and b.) that I want people to be less afraid of shitting themselves to death via colonoscopy than shitting themselves to death via cancer.

Because I didn't. Die, that is. The next morning I woke up and had to drink yet another 2 liters of the mean person spit. Only this time it was less violent as there was simply nothing left to vile. Except bile. Out of my butt. Too much? Please, we've come this far. Bryan drove me to the hospital with me clenching the whole way there while Googling on my phone "do people ever poop on the doctor during a colonoscopy?" (Surprisingly, there were not that many direct hits to this inquiry, which I still think is a valid question.)

I had wanted to Sharpie something on my butt for the doctor beforehand, but in the throes of prep I forgot to be funny. Instead I just asked him if anyone ever did that, and he said yes, once he had a guy write Go Giants on his ass. I laughed, and thought for a second that I should probably tell him that when I was little I had swallowed a Weeble Wobble once, that he might find it in there because I don't remember it ever coming out, but then I thought that maybe he would think that I had put it IN my butt, so I didn't say anything, suddenly ashamed of that 35 year old stomach-acid-eaten Weeble Wobble, and then they put something in my IV and all of a sudden it didn't bother me at all that someone said they were going to insert the camera in my rectum now. There was a power ballad on, and I was awake but also not, as I usually am when listening to power ballads. I guess my eyes were closed; I guess some time went by. All I know is that there was some tugging and pushing and then the doctor said there was a small polyp, and I opened my eyes and looked at it on the screen. Yes! I said out loud, which was maybe a strange thing to say, strange to say anything at all, but I was happy that there was a reason for being, or a reason for shitting, a raison de la merde, I don't know. Just yes?

Later, after it was over and I was dressed, the doctor came out to shake my hand (dude, I know), and to tell me that they had taken one small polyp that was probably nothing but they would biopsy it. So it was small? He said yes. Like small and dainty, a pretty polyp? He said it was not dainty per se, just small and probably nothing, and then he told Bryan that I was not allowed to drive for 24 hours, or cook or go on social media, that I should probably just stop talking because I was still under conscious sedation, which seemed very modern and fair. The rest of the day had rounded edges and was pleasant.

So there it is. In 10-14 days I will find out that my polyp is most likely nothing, but if I had waited until I was 50, who knows? The bottom line (groan): if I can do it, me--someone who barely acknowledges pooping--then you can do it. Please, get a colonoscopy.

And because you stuck with me this long, this, just for shits and giggles...

xo,

S