Tuesday 28 May 2013

Black Snake Down... the Colonoscopy Diaries

The issue of colonoscopy, and men's health-screening in general, is clouded by false bravado, a macho "she'll be right, mate" attitude, and good old-fashioned embarrassment. Guilty as charged, Your Honour...

So it was with major reluctance that I finally bit the bullet after extensive hassling by my medical mates, and signed up for a routine colonoscopy. In my job, I diagnose bowel cancers with fairly high regularity in otherwise healthy people with completely unrelated complaints- around once a week. A typical scenario would be someone complaining of abdominal pain after an injury, perhaps a road accident, where an advanced tumour is picked up on a CT scan, completely unrelated to their presenting symptoms. With the benefit of this insight, and the knowledge that a small curable tumour is readily detected by colonoscopy (aka: The Black Snake- industry jargon for the colonoscope- a petit 1.5 metre flexible telescope), and these can be removed easily and curatively by the gastroenterologist during the procedure.

Snakes... why'd it have to be snakes?
Being on the business end of healthcare is new to me, and due to the somewhat taboo nature of the subject matter- not exactly a hot topic at cocktail parties- and its importance in early cancer prevention, I decided to keep a log of my experiences on the business end of the black divining rod.


C-Day Minus 1 : Flushing Meadows


8am: The Last Supper. Im allowed a slice of toast before switching to the requisite 24 hrs of clear fluids. Feeling confident... this will be a walk in the park. 

10am: Time for the first load of prep fluid... a litre of lukewarm salty stuff... reminds me vaguely of swallowing seawater after a nasty surfing wipeout... although not quite as satisfying...

12 midday: Lunchtime. Im now 2 litres deep in gatorade and various other fluids, but hunger is starting to niggle. Decided to tuck into lunch early- an orange Chuppa Chup. Really hits the spot. For 10 mins or so... 

2pm: i don't do hypoglycaemia well. My train of thought is becoming a little cloudy. I apologise to my partner for my vagueness, stupidity and inability to concentrate. She says she hadn't noticed any change in me...

3pm: Text message from a friend offering to bring round a box of Krispy Kremes. Salt into the wound... very cruel. I consider reporting it to the RSPCA, but instead opt to scoff half a litre of gatorade...

4pm: Cancelled my afternoon's activities... brain function minimal and fading rapidly... this calls for couch vegetation, Jaws movies, and a few litres of Pump water.

Rolf Harris never missed a gastroenterology appointment...

4.15pm: But seriously... I would inhale a box of Krispy Kremes right now...

6pm: The icing on the cake... the Imperial Grand Poobah... the gravy on the meatballs... an oversize litre jug of lemon intestinal lavage. This shit is almost starting to grow on me. The latrine has become like an old friend.

8pm: Lining up some scary movies... I figure if i scare the crap out of my girlfriend, it'll put us on a level playing field...


C-Day : Up, Periscope

6am: Feeling a little drained after a night spent catching up on my bathroom Rolling Stone mag collection, which I can now recite backwards on demand.

7am: The theatre staff are super-friendly and feign amusement at my unoriginal gags- "Be gentle, it's my first time..." and "Will you still respect me tomorrow?" 

Spanish Pole-dancing, coming soon to a club near you...

7.10am: I find myself kitted up in a pair of smouldering-hot disposable paper jocks, a green hairpiece and a Hugh Hefner bathrobe. Dressed to kill... I enquire if their fashion package comes with a Cuban cigar opton. I'm disappointed to learn that's not the case, nor do they offer an online shopping facility for their undergarment range. I make a mental note of this as-yet untapped fashion goldmine.


7.15am: The theatre nurses, despite their obvious amusement at my newfound flair for see-through disposable fashion, are very professional. My anaesthetist, an old acquaintance, offers me a choice of potent narcotic cocktails- 'The Cruiser', 'The Executive', or 'The Sledgehammer'? The bar is open, kids... I choose option C, without hesitation. A wise choice, she assures me as she puts in my IV.

8.30am: My next memory is reclining in a Gold Class recliner chair in recovery, smashing down a tray of sandwiches, cappuccinos and chocolate bars like a Guantanamo Bay hunger-striker. I have zero recollection of the procedure and no after-effects or discomfort whatsoever other than the feeling of having shotted a few tequilas. 

Turn The Other Cheek...


So there it is. My motive for enlightening you with my personal Black Snake Saga is really to illustrate that, as a bloke and a doctor, routine screening colonoscopy shouldn't be avoided out of overblown bloke-ish pride or machismo... talk to your doc about it. The experience overall is a walk in the park, and colonoscopy is a test that can save your life by early detection of small, curable cancers.

Bottoms Up!


Sir... according to the State of New York, you are the Assman....