JIM HENDRICKS: Getting the unknown behind you

It was a medical test that was way overdue.

Last year, I decided to finally get a colonoscopy, which I should’ve done when I hit 50. It wasn’t something I’d consciously put off, more like something I’d never gotten around to. Plus the idea of someone running a camera through my colon, on the whole, wasn’t something I was looking forward to getting behind me, so to speak.

But I’ve seen too many cases in which what you don’t know can hurt you, and a colonoscopy is the best way to find polyps that can turn into cancer. About mid-December, I had an appointment with the doctor to talk about the procedure. In filling out the paperwork at the nurse’s desk, I pulled out my dental insurance card by mistake. “Guess he won’t be concerned with that end of things,” I said as I fished the right card from my wallet. “At least I hope not. If he goes that far, it’s liable to leave a bad taste in my mouth.”

After the paperwork, Dr. Michael Dawson went over the details with me. Then he asked me if I had any questions.

“Seems like,” I remarked, “I ought to at least get hugs and cuddles first.”

“You’d be surprised at the number of proposals I’ve gotten over the years,” he quipped. I do like a doctor who has a sense of humor.

I didn’t think I had a problem. For several years, I figured as long as I didn’t have the test — or symptoms — I could go on my merry way, not knowing. Besides, it sounded a lot like one of those space alien anal probes. And when it comes to medical things, I tend to look on the darker of possibilities. The optimistic side of being a pessimist, however, is you’re always ready for the worst, and sometimes you’re pleasantly surprised.

The worst part of a colonoscopy, the consensus seemed to be, was the “preparation,” which involved drinking a strong laxative cocktail while you’re also on a clear liquid diet the day before the big test, which I had set for early January. You couldn’t drink anything red or purple, which eliminated the use of a Merlot or Cabernet, which got a double elimination because the instructions said no alcohol, a provision that I thought was Draconian in that a white wine, which I don’t ordinarily care for, seemed an unusually appealing option at the moment, if only for nerve-calming purposes. But then, I also heard myself say, “Hmm, this chicken broth really ain’t all that bad,” which clearly demonstrates just how delusional being hungry can get you when you’re already nervous.

My “cocktail” had a distinctly grapish flavor, not too bold and finishing off with a mellow, if heavy, sweetness. It had to be mixed with enough water to fill a 16-ounce glass, followed by two more full glasses of water within an hour. Then I was supposed to repeat the procedure about three hours later.

So, I gulped it down. Nothing. I went ahead and drank a glass of water. Nothing. I chugged down a second glass of water. Nothing. “Hmm. Maybe this isn’t gonna work on me,” I suggested to myself — about 10 minutes before I suddenly discovered why the instructions included a line that, to the best of my memory, read: “Make sure everyone knows the bathroom is YOURS.”

The word “YOURS” was in all caps. I also would suggest printing it in bold red type, and underlining it. And italicizing it.

It requires, I believe, exactly that much emphasis.

The other thing I was concerned about, as much as the test results, was the anesthesia. I’d never been put under, so I wasn’t sure how I’d react to it. “Just in case,” I told Cheryl as she drove me to the medical facility, “I have all our online accounts, log-ons and passwords written down,” and I told her where they were hidden.

“You’re going to be fine,” she reassured me, having heard me go on about this colonoscopy thing for a few weeks now.

“You’re right, you’re right,” I agreed, “but we really can’t know that, now can we?”

I was getting dangerously close to the doctor discovering a lady’s implanted shoe during the examination.

In fact, after I put the anesthesiologist through an inquisition on how long it would take me to wake up and when, exactly, he’d hit the panic button; pointed out to the attending nurse that I’d underlined all the possible negative outcomes on the informed consent form as being outcomes I wanted her to tell the doctor I absolutely did not want, and complained about the inability of medical professionals to come up with a patient gown that isn’t completely exposed in the back, it’s a bit of a surprise that the doctor didn’t discover enough stock during the test to open up a shoe store.

Once in the operating room, I felt certain points of clarity were needed, particularly after I determined a couple of female nurses would be in attendance. “There are two things I need to mention,” I said. “First, it wasn’t on any of the questionnaires as far as I can remember, but I do snore. Also, since I’ll be out and I don’t know who’s going to see what, I’d like to point out that it’s really cold in here.”

I mentioned to Dr. Dawson that, in my opinion, the preparatory cocktail would’ve been much more palatable if I’d been able to chase it with a nice Chardonnay. Not missing a beat, he noted the wine has a yellowish tint and joked that vodka, being clear, would be better choice, “though I don’t think any of my colleagues would go along.”

“I’d be happy,” I said, “to write an editorial endorsing the position.”

After expressing doubt at how quickly the anesthesia would knock me out and observing, “Huh. That feels funny,” I was suddenly back in the first room with Cheryl, where I had apparently just carried on a conversation with Dr. Dawson about the results. In my case, they were good — no polyps; eat more fiber.

Anticlimactic, admittedly, but that’s good when it comes to medical tests. I was fortunate, but so is the person who catches a problem before it turns into a health crisis. This is one way you can improve your chances of a longer, healthier life … just by getting the unknown behind you.

Email Jim Hendricks at [email protected].