The Living Endoscopy

Like most other 40-something men who actively monitor their health, the time finally arrived when it was time for me to lay on the sterile table and undergo my first-ever colonoscopy. In the end--ha!--it was no big deal, and a nice autumn day at home afterwards to take a nap, read the paper, and relax a bit.

It started with the gastroenterologist's recommendation, "Have you ever been scoped?" No, well then that's what we'll definitely need to do. In mere minutes he had the meds arranged, the date set, and I was out the door with instructions and prescriptions.

Then came the Night of Preparation. The nice lady from the day surgery clinic, as she asked me all of the questions that would inform the anesthesiologist of what to do and not to do, and would also cover them for insurance and liabilty purposes, assured me that the evening before would be the most unpleasant aspect of the entire process. And man, was she right. I'll take a video camera up my butt any day as long as I don't have to go through the prep procedure again.

First was the cessation of all solid food 24 hours prior. That meant a biscuit for breakfast and nothing more. Clear drinks were okay, but that's not much consolation when you drive past the Burger Whop and the smell makes you want to drive right through the front door to get a sandwich. Then dinner had to be either clear jello or bullion, again nothing solid. Okay, I went with some Wyler's Zesty Garlic chicken bullion, and as soup with nothing in it goes, it was okay. Then the real punishment began.

Within 30 minutes it was the Reglan tablet. As I waited for it to work is magic I mixed up the GALLON of Trilyte mix, a vicious stool softener and laxative. To lessen the impact, I had a choice of flavors. I picked pineapple, and I fear I now may be off the taste of pineapple for the rest of my life.

I knew it was going to be bad when I poured the stuff into the glass, and it poured like oil. Not like water, with that dynamic action, the lightness, the clarity, none of that. It poured and flowed like baby oil, but smelled like pineapple, you know, a really industrial, synthetic, probably petroleum-based pineapple, something very manufactured.

And I put it to my lips, and my perceptions were fully realized. If it had been like water or juice that would've been fine, but it was thick, just like weak oil. Jeezus, it was nasty, with that wretched pineapple taste. And so it went, a glas of it every 15 minutes until the entire jug was gone. That should've take about 2 1/2 hours, but ended up taking more like 3 1/2. Why the time difference? The extra hour was me sitting on the toilet, groaning like a wounded buffalo as this junk just blasted its way through me. Absolutely vicious, that's the only way to describe it.

I finally was done with the horrible, horrible, miserable, disgusting fluid and wanted to head to bed--tired from a day of work--but couldn't because it still had to work its way through and take everything else with it. That was another 45 minutes of cramps and pain and disturbing intestinal articulation before I could get in bed and get to sleep. And then there were the four more wake-ups during the night for the same thing.

Up at 0500 and off to work to get some hours in. Out the door at 0830 and to the hospital by 0930, spot on time, as they'd asked. Paperwork went fine, and then to the lab for a bit of blood work after getting my wristband locked on. And asked my full name and birthday, numberous times. Then up to Three and the Endoscopy Suite, again with the name and birthday. Wouldn't want the wrong guy to get a probe stuck up his ass today, right? It's not like I'm going to have my twin brother or my best-bud fraternity buddy come in and take this test for me, now, is it? I thought about a private room, some semblance of discretion given that they're sticking electronic devices up people's asses. But no. Not in the least.

This is when it really got interesting.

I step to the reception desk, which really is just a standard hospital metal desk, overloaded with folders and bins, at the end of a little hall. Open to my left is the main restroom and linen cupboard, also stuffed with all kinds of things, mostly gowns and blankets. And to the right, the entire recovery and prep area for the whole endoscopy suite. I step to the desk, and as I glance to my right to see five bays with three sets of feet protruding, I hear a huge, ripping, strangely tremulous fart. I mean, a good 15 seconds of prolonged squeaking, clearly resonant with pressure and modulation, something that would be truly impressive and remarked upon admiringly in just about any other context than this. And, no pained silence afterwards, nor any raucous laughing, but instead the reassuring, just-maternal-enough voice of the unseen recovery nurse cooing, "Yes, Mister Farbenblatt, that's what we want. Just push it out." Ol' Farbie groans in relief and blows another one as good as the first. Now this is a guy who's not used to just letting rip.

Okay, so now I know what I'm in for. And I can't help but immediately think of the folks who work here, who get to do this 8 hours a day, five days a week. How many folks go through here a day, 20, 30? I mean, do they hear the sound of post-colonoscopy farts in their dreams, the rumbling baritones, the tweeting screamers? I feel sorry for them, more than myself in my current situation.

But then again, there's no stench here. No horrible refried-beans-n-cheddar burrito pall hanging like World War I mustard gas in the low spots, like phony Hollywood moor fog. No smell at all, nothing, which surprises me a bit given the activity going on. But then again, on a bit more reflection, that makes perfect sense. There's nothing left in me or any of these other poor victims to make a stink. We shat it all out last night in the prolonged agony of the laxative-water and the 3 dozen trips to the toilet in 3 hours. We're as clean as we can be, inside and out.

I'm shown to the restroom and changing room, told how to put my gown on, and given a bag to store my clothes in. As always the gown is probably older than my kids, with holes in it, no less, and the pattern is something from a 1960s barber shop apron. Soft, though, wonderfully soft from its hundreds and hundreds of washings. And it's open in the back, of course. I tie it the best I can, but when I'm done I've got a clear plastic bag that's got all of my clothes in it, and it's plain to see I'm truly commando, more like cave man, under my dumbass little gown.

I emerge into the suite, and the first nurse gives me a pre-warmed blanket over my shoulders. Nice, really nice, and I felt a bit like a little kid. I'm shown to my bed, and as I lift a leg up to hop it, the dorky gown only going to above my knees, I know my hoo-hah is on display to the world, and of course, one or two of the nurses are looking, and they get the glimpse they're anticipating. I'm not looking at them, but can see them peripherally, and I even hear a sort of cheer or noise of triumph just as I get onto the bed, of course as my legs are as spread as they're going to get, as the gown is as open as it's going to get. Someone is happy with the view, and I'm happy to provide it. I'm no Chippendale, but I'm no Elepant Man either. The nurses get this every day, so why do I need to be shy or coy? I see it as a fringe benefit of their work environment. What with the unending farts and the anal insertion all day long, and all of the other nastiness assorted with working the endoscopy suite, why not give them something a bit more positive? After all, in another few minutes, two or three of these ladies are going to be attending when the GI doc runs his electronics up my ass.

So I'm on the bed, and I get another warm blanket. Man, is that a nice sensation, even sitting in this open bay hospital suite with the guys (no women getting 'scoped today, go figure) to my left and right tweeeeeting and frapping and blarfing away as they recover from their recent procedures. I felt like a little kid, warm and safe and all set, which is probably just what they want (although I tend to doubt they actually think of the psychological comfort of the patient, just the physical comfort).

They got my IV in my right arm, and I was more or less ready to go. Befor they wheel me in, in comes another guy for his procdure, probably right after me. He's in his dumbass gown, with his onw little clear plastic bag of belongings. But it's the look on his face that gets me. This guy is absolutey mortified. He can't believe what's going to happen to him, and he's almost panicking thinking of it. Who knows if it's just the raw personal shame and embarrassment of having someone, having many different strangers get a close-up look at your third eye, or if it's the fact that he's going to actually be penetrated. That fear is in his eyes, the look on his face, the tight smile of a guy trying to keep it together when he wants to run like hell. Someone has ordered him here, whether his wife or mom or doctor, and now he's here and doesn't want to be. He is scared to death of what's going to happen to him, and it's oozing out of every pore of his body.

Poor stupid bastard, I thought, lingering on the stupid part. I mean, who really cares about what's going on here? If I'm here on the orders of my doc, it's for a good reason. He wants to find something out, and this is the test that will help him. Who cares if he sees my asshole, or anything else? Who cares if any of the nurses get the same view? I could care less, really. We've all got one, so what's so special about mine? Nothing, that's what. Let's do the job, and get on with life, just as long as I don't have to drink anymore of that wretched liquid laxative concoction, that's all I care about.

They drop the bed and wheel me in. The anesthesiologist tells me that she's going to run the juice into my IV, and it'll burn a bit as it enters. The nurses chirp, "We're ready here, doctor," and in strides my dorky GI to run his instruments up my butt. He gives me a perfunctory, hollow, "How are you doing, today?" and before I can answer he's behind me, on his stook and slipping on his gloves. I feel the slight burn of the juice going in, and within about four seconds everything gets really, really thick. I manage to comment to the doc, "Man, that stuff works fast." She tells me to concentrate on my breathing, the cool oxygen flanges up my nostrils. I take two deep breaths, and then am waking up as they wheel me out the door of the exam room.

"All done," chirps an unseen nurse as I slowly slog my way through the heavy, heavy waves of fuzzy, tugging unconsciousness to make out where I am and what's going on. Right away I'm pretty much aware, at least I know where I am--on my right side with my ass sticking out on a hospital gurney--but can't seem to say too much. I'm smart enough to realize that I'm still dopey on drugs, so I just stay quiet, rather than say something stupid. I put my head back down and just go right back to sleep.

I awake either 75 hours later or just a couple of minutes later. I'm back in the recovery bay where I've started, and I'm on my back. I ask for my glasses and can then see the world around me clearly. They're wheeling the poor stricken, panicked schlub next to me in, and he's already hyperventilating, he's so scared. I react by farting long and luxuriously, as Alexandre DeLarge said so eloquently in A Clockwork Orange, "a wonderful vibrate-y feeling all through (my) gutty-wutts." The pressure is less, and I feel fine except for a fine, delicate little headache crouching behind my eyes. It's an anesthetic thing, I know, and I get a drink of water to help it along.

The nurses just keep monitoring me and my blood pressure and my status as I recover, doing just fine. About 15 minutes later they roll Panicky Guy out, and he's doped up like an Afiran rhino for translocation. They must have totally knocked this guy on his chemical ass just to get him to unclench himself and his mind, to relax a bit and make the procedure better for everyone involved.

As he finally comes out of his fog, the nurse asks him in her most sincere, maternal, non-threatening tone, "Mr. Nutterbutter, how are you feeling?"

I love this part, just love it. He mumbles somehting absolutely unintelligible, no-shit caveman talk coming out of this guy, low and throaty and rambling. I'm reminded of William Hurt in Altered States, when his throat structure reverts. A few minutes later the guy is still a million miles away, but close enough to talk. He's on the other side of the curtain, so I can seen none of this. the nurse again asks after his health, and he replies in a wonderfully drugged monotone, "Bob Nutterbutter, 5-5-5-1-2-3-4." The nurse jokes to her endoscopy suite buddies that he must be one of those "name, rank, and serial number guys." Everyone gets a good laugh out of this. Me, I just keep my mouth shut, eyes and ear open.

For another 15 minutes, every time they ask the guy anything, he replies only with his low, halting, "Bob Nutterbutter, 5-5-5-1-2-3-4." That's all the dumbass can get out. I wonder what kind of mind reacts that way to an encounter with tranquilizing drugs. I wonder what kind of thought and mental struture this guy has got, that his default answer to anything posed to him in this state is his name and apparently his phone number. I think it would be helpful if he were in an accident, or drunk off his ass in a foreign gutter, but doubt he'd be of much help to himself if asked to describe the nature of injuries or problems. I wonder if it's a defense mechanism, that this guy's fear of the hospital, the procedure, of exposing his ass, of getting penetrated was so deep, so ingrained and visceral, that he's actually gone somewhere else, that his true Nutterbutter Self, the conscious kernel of who this guy really really is down deep inside, has tucked itself away for protection. That seems pretty logical and plausible, given this guy's obvious fear before it all started.

Slowly, he comes on out of the drug haze, and his first comprehensible words are to ask when he can leave so he can get back to work. And now that the drugs are more or less gone and his procedure is behind--ha!--him, he's free to ramble, and that's just what he does. All he does is talk, a mile a minute, about all of the folks counting on him, how he has to get back to work, how he's got no time to waste, how he has things to do, how he has to get back to work, how he's got appointments stacking up, how he's got to get back to work and blah blah fucking back to work blah! Damn, I almost told the guy to shut the hell up. No wonder he's in the hospital, so focused on work that he probably has neglected every single aspect of his health his entire adult life. No wonder he's uptight about the hospital and its procedures.

Feeling even better, he mentions he's into real estate, starts selling his company, baldly, brashly, unashamedly. He tells the nurse to open his plastic bag so she can pull out business cards to give everyone. The nurses aren't interested, but he's either too stupid or too drugged still--or both--to pick up on it, and he keeps hammering away at the real estate crapola, about investments and houses, and how to make money and how the market is trending blah blah blah. It's obvious he's showing off his knowledge to a bunch of folks who don't know as much as he does, his sales spiel clearly resting on a torrent of industry terms and recent references to establish what he believes is an immediately credible professional standing. To me he's just obnoxious. And he won't shut up.

Thankfully about then I'm released. I'm escorted, with a nurse at each elbow, to a chair in the hallway to await my wheelchair ride downstairs. I get right back up and stick my head back into the recovery bay to bid a "Thank you, ladies," to all of the nurses. Surprised reply from them; apparently this kind of common courtesy isn't too common for them. Hey, they did their jobs well, took care of me, and why not give them a simple thank-you? Why can't more folks remember to do this?

My wife's been called, and she'll be here in no time, since we live literally around the corner. No, I can't just walk out on my own; I have to be pushed out the door in a wheelchair. Yeah, that's a bit much, but I understand that it's policy, and it's policy because the bean counters in the insurance underwriters have made the risk calculation for patients recently under sedation and decided that the risk is just too great, and evryone has to be wheeled out the door to their vehicle. And who do they get for me? Well, just the nicest 70-something lady you can imagine, one each Fran.

I'm reminded of the time I got off the ferry in Penang, Malaysia, and was headed to a hotel. I knew where I wanted to go, and it wasn't that far. I was in my gear, and had my backpack all set, so I just set out. But the pedicab guys were relentless in pummeling me, the big white guy and obvious rich tourist (despite the shorts, boots, and backpack), for their measly fare to the hotel. The loudest and most pathetic of the bunch was this Chinese guy who looked to be about 150 years old. He had wrinkles in his wrinkles, no teeth at all, and couldn't speak a lick of either English or Malay, nothing but Chinese. I haggled a price, and asked him if he'd had the juice to get 155 pounds of me and another 70 lbs or backpack to my desired address. He assured that he would, for all of about US$1.10. Not a bad deal, and he was happy, too, so I hopped in.

Fran wasn't quite as pathetic and needy, and genuinely eager to do her volunteer job in schlepping me out, but I did feel bad about her having to push gigantic me down the hallway. She didn't seem to mind, though. Thank you, Miss Fran.

Down to the waiting Honda, inside and buckled in, and to the house. I have a couple of warm tortillas for lunch, hungry as hell, and completely empty in the entire system, guaranteed. Then read the paper at a wonderfully leisurely pace, reading every single article I wanted to, not rushed, not having to listen to the kids or anything else. Beautiful day outside, the family room doors to the front and back open, with the sun pouring in, a slight breeze making it all perfect, there in teh whie leather recliner. The wife is home for the day, and is showering ahead of going to an evening class. She's right there in her bathrobe, just as nekkid as I was under my gomer hospital gown, and she's looking absolutely delicious. No one home but the two of us, but even I am surprised at how my modestly advance age steps right on in, and despite all the thoughts of my wonderful sexy wife and her white bathrobe and what the two of us just might do together for the next four hours, I'd just much rather take a nap. So I pull the blinds, strip down, slide between the sheets, and take the most glorious 3-hour afternoon nap I've had in quite a few years. The wife and I can hook up later, sometime later.