Dear reader, this piece is unique in that it is written with one reader in mind. I feel moved—nice choice of words—to tell you all about my recent colonoscopy, which I admit is not the sort of thing about which a gentleman speaks to a lady under normal circumstances, but given your reluctance to fully appreciate the above-mentioned procedure on your own body part, I feel that a little encouragement would not be out of place. Additionally, there must have been a reason for the thought of such a procedure to filter through your mind and I would hate you to miss out on something that might be important simply because you did not fancy undergoing the experience.
Almost two days of fasting before the event might have been difficult for some but, as I am not a great eater, it was no problem for me. What was problematic was the obligatory mixing of two different powders in one litre of water that had to be drunk between the hours of 5 and 6 the evening before, which was followed by yet another litre of water containing two similar packets of powder that had to be drunk an hour later. Thereafter one glass of water had to be imbibed each hour for the next several hours. The cocktail tasted foul, well not at first, but after a few mouthfuls I knew it was time to stop although I was not allowed to. Rest assured, the person who composed these instructions was a happy soul with a generous sense of humour.
My appointment was for 8.40 the next morning, before which I was required to present myself at the hospital laboratory to test my blood as I am on ‘blood thinning’ medication and, as they so nicely pointed out, they would be taking samples from my innards if they found anything suspicious while they were ‘in there anyway’. I was advised to have a good night’s sleep (by the twisted, demented pervert who wrote the instructions) but between the hours of 11 and 5 throughout the night I spent most of my time glued to the toilet religiously drinking glass after glass of water. The Germans have a word, Durchfall, which means ‘fall through’, for a particularly severe form of diarrhoea. I really felt my insides were falling out, or rather shooting out, of my soon to be abused little anus.
6 o’clock finally came around and I got up and showered, dutifully avoiding the intake of any food or drink, as instructed, and leaped into the car in which my son was to drive me to the hospital for the procedure. On the way, we stopped at the local clinic that opened at 7 to have my blood tested. Because everything is computerized over here the results were waiting at the hospital long before I arrived.
Once I had paid my fee of approximately EC$30, I was directed to the operation area waiting room that was ominously labeled Pain Management Department. Not a good sign, but at least they were up front about it. Within five minutes I was whisked away by a charming nurse to the changing room where I had to strip naked, put on a gown and lie on a stretcher to await my turn while the nurse examined me and did the usual testing of blood pressure, etc. A glance at the clock revealed that I was running one minute behind schedule, a delay that was quickly rectified.
Once in the operating theatre I was instructed to lie on my side and relax. The nurse injected something into my arm. The main surgeon and his assisting doctor both shook hands with me and asked whether I wanted to watch the procedure. When I answered in the affirmative they lowered a giant TV monitor to my eye level so that I could see everything they could see as the probed away at my insides. It was quite fascinating. I had expected to see clumps of unmentionable stuff in there but actually the intestine was quite clean and empty. Now and then, there was a stream of liquid that dribbled down. I asked what it was and the doctor explained it was the remnants of my medication the evening before that were still having an effect. My intestine, which in reality is quite small, was enlarged on the screen. Every so often they blew air into me to expand it even further so they could get a better look at areas of interest, which caused me a little discomfort, nothing more. The whole procedure took about 45 minutes.
The surgeon proclaimed himself to be satisfied with my innards. Even in places where you could expect some deterioration due to my age there were no signs of excessive wear and tear. I was given a clean bill of health before I was wheeled into the recovery room where the original nurse served me coffee and a cheese sandwich. Less than half an hour later I was dressed and raring to go with one less concern to worry about. Maybe I was lucky, but my advice to anyone faced with the challenge of a colonoscopy is this: Go for it! It’s not as bad as they say, and it might just save your life!
