In the slick world of Western medicine, where hearts are transplanted and organs regrown, you would have thought some brainiac would have invented an alternative to the colonoscopy by now.
I know there are many other ways of investigating the bowel, like scans and stool tests. I even came up with the brilliant idea of creating a super-enema to help with preparation. I was going to call it the frenema – as in the “friendly enema”.
Before I applied for this patent that would pump squillions into the family trust, I did my due diligence. I Googled to see if it had been thought of before. Yes, it had, and no, this wouldn’t work as an alternative since it would only clear the lower bowel. Bummer.
There’s no getting around it. As many a medical journal will tell you, the colonoscopy is the “gold standard” for checking your gut and simultaneously shearing away any polyps. I see a gilt-lined intestine leading to a gilt-lined BMW in the doctors’ car park.
But, of course, it’s not the colonoscopy per se that’s the problem – unless you’re my friend who had one in a southern Italian hospital WITHOUT anaesthetic. As those who’ve experienced it know, it’s the preparation. Although it’s vital to prepare well for this important procedure that saves lives – so don’t stop doing it – it doesn’t mean you have to love it.
I certainly don’t, but this being my sixth colonoscopy, I’ve decided to look on it as a kind of Alice-in-Wonderland adventure that will so distract me I won’t even notice the yucky stuff.
For the past two days, I’ve been on a “white diet” (the first weirdness). This means that everything I eat must be light and white – rice, yoghurt, white bread – so no alarming colours show up in the plumbing. Sounds easy enough, but what if I want my white bread toasted? Would that still be acceptable? And what if I accidentally burn the toast to BLACK? In theory, it’s still white bread. I scratch around for a suitable spread. Peanut butter won’t do and Vegemite would be a disaster. I’d surely be arrested by the stool police.
Maybe I’m overthinking all this, but I want to do my best for my lovely gut doctor, GastroDoc. The one who, during consults, ends every sentence with “Does that make sense?” I’m so gleefully counting the times she says this that I totally ignore what comes before it. Um, actually, it doesn’t make sense …
In the afternoon before the big probe, I’m to take three packets of Picosalax at hourly intervals, starting at 3pm. They want me to add this powdery laxative to a warm glass of water and then … stick it in the fridge to cool down (the second weirdness). Can’t I just use cold water and be done with it? Then I have to drink half of a large dam to make the powdery stuff thunder through my bowels. It may as well say DRINK ME, like Alice’s mystery potion.
I’ll pause here for a short rant. Why oh why do they have to make this mixture taste so bad that you need to pinch your nose or suck it through a straw or suck on a barley sugar to cope? The same applies to cat and dog tablets that taste so foul you have to plunge them deeply into your beloved pet’s dinner so they gulp them down unaware. (They always find them and leave them licked clean in the middle of the plate like it’s some weirdo game invented by humans.)
The first hour goes by and all’s quiet. Now I’m up to the second sachet. Not a peep. After the third and final call there are just no takers (the third weirdness). I must have guts of brick just when I need them to be soft and sloppy. What if I don’t go at all?! The procedure next morning will have to be changed and then I’ll be up for a cancellation fee and have to do the whole thing again.
I wiggle like a belly dancer to lively up myself, as Bob Marley would say. It’s now five hours since I took my first sachet and I’m on the point of ringing the doctor to cancel when … the Battle of Waterloo begins. At last. I’ve never been so delighted to see action. The battle rages well into the night – but it must not stop until the cloudiness drifts away and victory is achieved – or a “water” stool at any rate (fourth weirdness). That’s right. You need to pooh “water”.
The easy bit, as most of us know, is the procedure itself. It’ll be over in less than an hour, then we get a salad sandwich – free! Nothing at all weird about that. But consider this – according to the ColoWrap website: “Roughly half of the colonoscopies performed in Europe do not use sedation …For every patient who has an unsedated colonoscopy, an endoscopy unit can save an hour.” Now that’s not odd. That’s INSANE! My poor friend was telling the truth. No wonder he’s still in therapy.
GastroDoc pays me a visit in Recovery. All’s fine, she says, before recommending another wonder drug for the Crohn’s. They sound like intergalactic Pokemon – Stelara, Skyrizi, Rinvoq. Apparently, Vedolizumab is next in my orbit. Who writes this stuff?
It’s not until I get home and read the surgical report that I learn my flushing-out skills were rated by GastroDoc. If I’d known there was going to be a test, I would have been shitting myself from the start. Yes, the Boston Bowel Preparation Scale is now used Down Under to gauge the cleanliness of your colon (fifth weirdness). They divide it into three (not literally) with each section marked out of three. I achieve a score of six out of nine; not bad, not brilliant.
Yet another surprise. The report says the procedure was tricky due to my redundant colon. My what?! (The final weirdness). I’m imagining a no-through road the doctor’s probe must reverse out of. Beep, beep, beep. Turns out it’s an extra-long intestine that loops and twists all over the shop.
That’d be right. Always the attention seeker, my gut. It misbehaves, it flares up, it settles down, it needs flushing out now and then. Still, like the rest of my body, I’ve learnt to love the silly thing and look on its peculiar adventures with Mad Hatter-ish fascination.
Does that make sense?
Jo Stubbings is a freelance writer and reviewer.
