I knew it was coming. I just turned 45 years old. I had been putting off contacting my doctor, knowing what her answer would be. I just wanted to be in this blissful state of avoidance.
But, just like with the preventative medical test of a mammogram at the age of 40, my conscience got the better of me and I messaged my doctor. Just as I thought, she said that at the age of 45, a colonoscopy is recommended, …..”especially for folks like you.”
Folks like me.
When I was finally cleared of cancer at the end of 2019, I was told that because it was hormone positive DCIS and it did not get past stage 0, that my chances of having another kind of cancer were not much higher than they had been before I was diagnosed or higher than any other person with my risk factors. It’s hard to believe, but that is what my care team said.
But I will always be labeled. Scarred and labeled.
It’s not really the fear of anesthetic. It’s not really the procedure itself. It’s not even the prep – which I hear is annoying or awful, depending on who I talk to. It’s the possibility that there is something wrong with me. Again. I hate that I have to worry about cancer again. I mean the first time I went for a screening, I was diagnosed. No warning. No symptoms. And while people say to me, “there’s no reason to think you have it now…” I cut them off- sometimes respectfully, often disrespectfully- and say that last time there was no warning and no symptoms and there was no reason to believe I had it. PTSD doesn’t work that way. Neither does trauma. They are not logical. It doesn’t actually matter what science or statistics says about the chances you have.
The opposite doesn’t work either, though. I can’t convince myself that I’ve already had the cancer, so I won’t have it this time. It’s like I’m in this hellish limbo of not knowing what to expect while only being able to expect the worst-case scenario, because that’s all I have experience with. I don’t have the experience of a clear mammogram. I don’t even have experience with clear margins in a biopsy. And now that I get to experience something new, I only expect the worst. Because it’s all I know.
The next step was to call the GI department of the hospital and wait to hear back about appointment options. They could get me in within two weeks, so I took it because that meant less time to stew in worry. I was prescribed a giant jug (4 liters) with a bit of powder at the bottom. The instruction packet was 5 pages long. In it was one page full of a Low Fiber Diet that was to begin 5 days before the procedure. Another entire page was on the day before the procedure (only clear liquids that day).
Day 1 of the low fiber diet: the realization that normally, I only eat seeds, whole grains, and fibers. And now I cannot. I can do this, I told myself. I went to the grocery store and just meandered down the aisles. I stared at the shelves. I reached for boxes to look at labels. I couldn’t process much. My cart contents: sourdough bread, plain bagels, English muffins, rotisserie chicken, cream cheese. That’s a lot of white food.
Day 2 of the low fiber diet: hangry. My husband keeps walking through the house muttering through grumbles “It’s gonna be a long week.” I took the wrong turn when going to an address I’ve been going to for 6 years. It’s like I couldn’t do regular things. I did, however, put a Costco-sized amount of toilet paper in the bathroom for later.
Day 3 of the low fiber diet: I have the shakes until I eat white bread. But then I can’t poop. I miss my fibers, I scream! Then I return to gaze at the flavored yogurt (which makes me feel like a toddler), sourdough toast and scrambled egg on my plate. Can’t wait for pudding for dessert. Oh, and I’ve lost my shoes. Seriously, I cannot find them. My brain is nonfunctional.
Day 4 of the low fiber diet: prepping for liquid. Today I’m going to eat all the protein I can so I’m not starving tomorrow when I must start on an all-clear liquid diet. I’m already cranky just thinking about it. I had a milkshake, chicken, custard and eggs. All day.
Day 5: all clear liquids. I miss my white foods. I drank black coffee. I drank two mugs of tea. I made lemon Jello. My stomach rumbled at 1:09pm. At 3pm I mixed the GIGANTIC jug of powder with lukewarm water and store it in the fridge. When the clock hit 5pm it was my intent to hit that GIGANTIC jug of water with gusto, be done with my prep and sit on the toilet for hours. Plans rarely work out, though. I had one kid who was down the street playing at the park with no way to get a hold of him. I had another kid who was taking her sweet time coming home. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to communicate with either of them from the toilet. You know, you hear so many stories of people who have done the prep for a colonoscopy – and every story I heard was different. So, I didn’t know what to expect. Once one kid was home, I had her go fetch the other one and I started drinking. One glass of the solution every 15 minutes was the prescribed schedule. By the second glass, I could not keep up with that schedule. I got so cold I had to wrap myself in two blankets and put a hat on. My whole body was shuddering. I sat on the end of my bed, pretty close to the bathroom, listening to my kids argue downstairs. I told them they had to take care of themselves while I was doing this prep.
Tears rolled down my face as I chugged another glass of that solution. It tastes like baking soda in water. Cold is better than warm. Lightly flavored with crystal light lemonade powder is only slightly better. But not much. 3 liters later, I was done for the night. I was up on the toilet every 4-5 minutes until 11pm.
Day of the scope: when will I actually be empty? I only got up twice during the night, which I think is great. The alarm went off at 6:15 am and I got ready for the day. After drinking all that, I finally felt hungry again. I prepared lunches for the kids and helped them start their day. I had one more liter to drink and I chugged it because I was so thirsty. It was going to be a challenge to get my daughter to school this morning. It takes 12 minutes to get her to school and be back home on a good day. So that’s the time I had to beat before I would poop myself in the car. She looked at me and said, “that would be embarrassing, Mom.” I emptied myself right before we got in the car and by some sort of traffic miracle, I made it back, just in time for my next bodily evacuation.
The drive to the hospital was rainy and dreary. It is a small hospital with a very quaint endoscopy department. I was the only one there, so I had everyone’s full attention. A nice RN named Zoe asked me all the important questions then took vitals. She went to start an IV and she tried once. Then twice. Then switched arms. Apparently, my veins run diagonally and are “twisty.” After her fourth attempt, she called in Katie, another lovely nurse. As she was trying, we got to chatting about veins in general and I told her that when I had all the surgeries associated with my DCIS, they didn’t have this much trouble. She, a spouse of a cancer survivor, asked me how I was handling this procedure. I told her that PTSD was real, and I was having some trouble and just wanted to be through this. She concurred and said that as a spouse, she also has PTSD from watching what her husband went through. Cancer seems to touch everyone. Throughout this conversation, she asked for smaller and smaller needles, and after 8 tries, was able to get an IV started. Never in my life has that been so hard, and I am currently bandaged up and down both sides of my arms and back of my hands.
Anyway, the doctor came in and described the procedure and asked if I had any questions. Then, I signed paperwork.
When the room was ready, they wheeled me in and went through the process of verbally recording everything that would happen. I had to give my name and stats, then say what I was there for. Then they all introduced themselves again and went through a checklist of all the materials and instruments they would need for the procedure. When they put the propofol in my IV, I said, “Thank you that works well” and then woke up 45 minutes later on the same table talking about my dream about seeing Big Bird perform in the show my daughter is rehearsing for right now. My subconscious was completely aware that this made no sense, but it sure is funny.
The doctor came in with my results. He thanked me profusely for doing the prep work. He found no polyps. Nothing. I asked him, “Are you sure?” which was probably not the right thing to ask, considering he is a practicing doctor, but I couldn’t help it. He said, “No polyps” and continued to tell me that preserved foods (foods with long shelf lives) are the worst for our colons, but that our society doesn’t allow for the time to prep food from scratch every meal, so do my best to find a good balance. So, I have ten more years to mentally prepare for my next test. Until then, be well, even "folks like you."
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