Doctor's Understanding

“No, I know it’s not enjoyable,” my doctor responded empathetically.

“Enjoyable? That’s not even in the conversation. I’m just focusing on surviving!”

A Trip Down Memory Lane

I first met with the proctologist, who went into excruciating detail about the procedure and displayed his instruments. I was practically ready to flee the room. He seemed to believe that I was embarking on a heroic journey for the greater good.

My only responsibility was to ensure I prepared myself adequately for the process. He sent me to the pharmacy, where I received a large, stapled brown bag—one I had often seen but never understood.

Brass Tacks

For those unfamiliar with the colonoscopy experience, imagine the Roto-Rooter guy attempting to navigate 20,000 feet of pipes through your rear end.

But before the “procedure,” you must consume an enormous amount of liquid that tastes like something out of a swamp, all while resisting the urge to vomit. My doctor assured me I was “lucky” because the taste had improved. Clearly, he hadn’t sampled it recently.

As the concoction churned through my system, I felt like an earthquake was about to erupt within. I rushed to the bathroom and remained there for hours, long enough to imprint the toilet seat on my skin and to reflect on how messy my surroundings were.

The struggle to get up was enough to send me back to the toilet. Despite being told I was “full of it,” I was genuinely confused about how I could be in this predicament.

At least I was doing a commendable job of what was required—thoroughly cleansing myself.

My Journey Through the Process—“A Charming Experience”

The night dragged on, and I had to rise early for my hospital appointment. I admired my doctor’s optimism about the impending procedure. Eventually, I was sedated, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up to his serious expression.

“Oh no!” I mumbled.

“Everything is fine. I’ll show you the footage,” he said.

“Actually, I’ll take your word for it.”

“There is one thing,” he added.

“I knew it!” I exclaimed.

“No, you’re fine… but I grade my patients on how well they prepared.”

“Really?” I asked, perplexed.

He grimaced, “I had to give you a C+.”

I was stunned; I had never received a grade lower than a B in my life.

“What’s the lowest score you give?” I pressed.

“C+,” he replied, gravely.

“Are you serious? I downed every bit of that nasty drink! I was practically a hostage in the bathroom!” I protested.

He looked at me skeptically.

“What was I supposed to do? Use my vacuum cleaner?” I thought.

“Well, maybe next time you’ll do better,” he said gently.

“Next time? Not a chance! My C+ bowels and I are out of here.”

I skipped the follow-up appointment. That was it; I vowed never to subject my intestines to such scrutiny again.

Back to My Doctor

When I recounted my experience to my internist, she attempted to lighten the mood by suggesting he might grade on a curve. I wasn’t amused.

“There’s another option,” she suggested. “It’s a home test that you can mail back.”

“Sounds great,” I replied, feigning enthusiasm.

A couple of weeks later, a small white box arrived in my mail. The concierge handed it to me with an odd smile and said, “Good luck!” I assumed it was a surprise gift, perhaps for my upcoming birthday.

I have a peculiar fondness for boxes, often evaluating their potential for future use. This one seemed like a keeper.

A few days later, while watching TV, I saw an absurd commercial featuring cheerful icons dancing and people exclaiming, “I did it my way!” as if they had just won the lottery.

The icons danced on top of… my box. How was it possible? The box I had considered a treasure was now linked to this ridiculous ad.

“‘My way’? Please,” I scoffed as I grabbed the box. If I attempted this test “my way,” it would be a disaster. I struggled with COVID tests; following instructions was not my strong suit.

What’s so glamorous about testing your own poop? All the excitement surrounding it felt off-putting. If they had been straightforward and said, “This is a messy test, but you can handle it,” I might have felt more inclined.

For now, I will stick with what I know. I’ll drink the doctor’s concoction and endure the bathroom confinement. While I’m uncertain how to prepare for a colonoscopy, I’ll figure it out online. I won’t worry about my cancer-free status. However, if I earn another C+ in my medical records, I’ll be demanding a second opinion!