Giant Dwarf vs. The Anal Probe

So while we’re on the subject of bodily emissions, I’d like to talk about my colonoscopy. Yes, I am too young for it. Let me tell you how I got talked into this completely horrific experience:

It all started with a teensy little virus. Really. Back in February, my gut contracted a bit of a virus and I didn’t even know it. I found out after. I found out when it became impossible for me to digest anything adequately, when I would bounce between days of constipation and then, well, the opposite. After two weeks of this, I broke down and went to the Urgent Care clinic.

(PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Please note that I did not waste my own time nor the time of Emergency Department personnel by presenting to the ER. I looked up the urgent cares covered by my insurance, picked the one closest to me, called in the morning and was seen by the afternoon. If you’re not dying, I strongly recommend this route.)

Urgent Care being what it is (and it would have been the same in the Emergency Dept.), the doctor saw me, drew some labs, and recommended that I get to a GI specialist tout de suite. She recommended the handsome and charming Dr. N, and kept talking about how gorgeous and nice he was. I was a bit wary because I really don’t care if my doctor is handsome or charming; I kind of prefer that he was at the top of his medical school class and that he doesn’t cause me any life-threatening harm. Still, not knowing any other GI docs I wanted to go to, I made an appointment with Dr. N and was seen fairly quickly.

Dr. N examined me, asked me a few questions that meant nothing to me but a lot to him. One of the questions was: have you had any blood after a bowel movement? I answered it innocently enough because of course I have, usually as a result of hard poo or overzealous cleaning (TMI, I know, but there’s a point, I swear).

Warning: Yes was the wrong answer.

After presenting me with his theory that I contracted a virus that severely fucked up the flora in my stomach and that was likely the cause of my troubles, he then went on to express concern about the blood in my stool. What? Doesn’t this happen to nearly everyone? Apparently not.

He suggested a colonoscopy.

I told him I’d think about it.

Dr. N then proceeded to torture me for the next two weeks by restricting my diet so that my stomach can basically calm itself down. Here’s what I wasn’t allowed to eat: (1) Dairy; (2) Alcohol; (3) “Ruffage” (sic); (4) Soda; (5) Gum; (6) Artificial Sweeteners; (7) Whole grains. Okay, I can handle the no alcohol or soda, but NO CHEESE OR VEGETABLES for two weeks?!? Seriously? Life without cheese is sad and useless. It was a struggle, but I got through it. I took the probiotics that he also suggested and prayed that I would see no more blood.

After two weeks, I felt better, but I did see a bit of blood. Being an honest and death-fearing person, I told Dr. N, but was still reluctant about the scope. He suggested I find out my parents’ history and if one of them had polyps, subtract 10 years from the age they first found out and that’s when I have to get my butt scoped.

Thanks, Dad.

So I called and made an appointment. I would go to Florida first (yeah, the trip where I blew chunks all over the airplane restroom), come back, and do the prep the following Wednesday for a Thursday procedure.

When people tell you that the prep for a colonoscopy is the worst part, they are minimizing it for you.

It is beyond worst. Have you done this before? Next time I have to do this, I’ll at least prepare by setting up a TV and my computer in the bathroom so I can just not leave the toilet for several hours.

First, I spent Wednesday at work, drinking only liquids as I was directed. Clear liquids and NO red or purple liquids. It was not a good day; I need to chew something when I eat. I was ready to go to bed when I got home.

But not so fast, buckaroo. Because, when I got home, I had to drink this swill called MoviPrep. I am not exaggerating when I say that this stuff tastes like ass. I have never actually tasted ass, but I expect it’s one of the worst tastes ever and that is what MoviPrep tastes like, even with the “lemon-lime flavoring” added. They should have used it on Fear Factor, it’s that bad. I had to drink 2 liters of this stuff, a serving every 15 minutes for an hour, then wait 45 minutes, and do it again for another hour.

I actually had to hold my nose to drink the MoviPrep and gagged every time I swallowed that shit. I thought this was the worst part. It wasn’t. After the first liter, I found myself running to the bathroom every five minutes. And this is what I mean by camping out in the bathroom: I pooped so much that after I got through half of the second liter, I was pooping orange water. I was clean as a whistle (whatever that means), thank you very much, and I had absolutely NO nutrients in my body by the time I could finally go to bed…..which was after midnight.

Now what’s interesting is that my initial fears about the colonoscopy were not about the prep. I have an unnatural fear of needles and I was anxious about the IV. I had to talk my doctor into giving me an Ativan before the procedure because I was worried that if they put the IV in me without any happy pill, I would not be able to continue with the scope and will have wasted everyone’s time. (I tried to do this with my orthopedic surgeon last summer but he just responded with “don’t worry, we’ll just gas you before we insert the IV.” It worked, but I was super sick after I got out of surgery and it took hours for the anesthesia to wear off.)

I took the pill with a tiny sip of water when I got to the hospital. The funny thing about Ativan is that I don’t realize it’s working until much later after the fact. Here’s the evidence that indicates that that stuff calms me the fuck down:

(1) I brought my iPad with me to read my book while I was waiting. Apparently, I logged on to facebook during that time and posted this: “I’m in a lovely pattern gown that ties in the back, complemented by a pair of beige, non-stick socks. I lost my battle with MoviPrep last night. I now await the scope…..”

I realize I’m an oversharer, but I would not have typed this if I wasn’t loaded. I would have been too terrified.

(2) My nurse, Achilles (yes, really), got that IV in my hand without me feeling it at all. It didn’t bother me one bit at the time. However, as I write this right now, I am getting nauseous just thinking about it.

(3) Achilles came to my bedside with two other male nurses and asked who was the best looking. I said “Achilles” because it was the only name I could remember and also because I didn’t have a panic attack when he inserted the IV. If I wasn’t high, I would have said “you’re all good-looking” because I was raised with good manners.

(4) There were no female nurses so everyone in the suite was male. They asked if I had a problem with that. Would I have a problem with three men sticking a scope up my butthole while I was out like a light? “No problem,” I cheerily replied. That was the Ativan at work. (Of course, even without the benzo coursing through my system, I don’t think I would have had much of a choice anyway.)

And so it came to pass (pun intended) that the scope was completed and I came out, again, clean as a whistle. The results were normal, I got to take home photos of my rectum and colon (which more than proved that the MoviPrep is extremely effective), and think for the next few weeks about whether or not to blog about this.

Yes, the prep was a revolting, horrific experience, but the truth of the matter is this: this is an important test to rule out bad stuff and early detection is key to effective treatment. So that is my message to you, dear blog fans: take good care of yourselves and keep your buttholes healthy!

Giant Dwarf vs. Virgin America

Last month, I woke up at 3:45 in the morning to go on vacation. I don’t know about the rest of the world, but “3:45 am” and “vacation” is a complete oxymoron to me. But that is how my vacation began, after about 2 hours of sleep following several hours of frantic packing for weather I can’t even begin to understand.

Yes, I was going to Orlando, Florida at the invitation of my uncle and aunt. UD owns a couple of timeshares in Orlando (he is a total Disneyphile) and invited my brothers and I and our significant others to hang out in the land of Walt, Mickey and a few thousand British people who for the life of me I can’t understand why they want to vacation in Florida.

But we’re not in Florida yet….we’re still in Los Angeles. In the middle of the night. Where it’s still kind of cold. And creepy. My landlord is a complete asshole and has not given me a parking space in the eight years I have lived in this building (and been a model tenant, I might add), so I have to park my car at my cousin’s house a few miles away from me when I go on vacation. Her neighborhood has no parking restrictions. So I gather up my luggage, load my car and drive to her house. Then, because it is completely unfair to ask a friend for a ride to the airport at 5:30 in the morning, I wait.

I wait for the shuttle to take me to the airport. While I wait, I eat a single granola bar that was probably worth about 90 calories. I burned that loading my suitcase in the car and then having anxiety about the shuttle not being able to find me in my cousin’s completely non-gridded neighborhood.

The airport at six in the morning was busier than I expected, but because it was mostly business travelers, I got through security pretty quick and then had WAY TOO MUCH TIME on my hands before my plane arrived. Interesting, though…..no restaurants were open and, frankly, since I don’t usually wake up until after my plane was scheduled to take off, I wasn’t really hungry.

So I sat with my People Magazine and texted my friend in Boston as the families with screaming children filed into the gate. This was when it dawned on me: I’m going to Disneyworld. Holy crap, my flight and the next five days of my life will be filled with caterwauling, shrieking children....and that’s in addition to my brothers and the Spazz!

(For those of you who have read my previous post about my difficulty traveling with others, you’ll be pleased to know that the Spazz, the Golden Child and the Thinker all came in a few days after I did. I got to travel alone. And, as you’ll soon find out, it was not all rainbows and unicorns.)

Cut to a perfectly situated aisle seat on Virgin America Airlines. I can order things to eat on the screen in front of me! I can pick my music, watch television, and even annoy a perfect stranger 10 rows in front of me if I so choose (I’m sure you know that I didn’t…..if I don’t want to talk to my seatmate in person, I certainly don’t want to text him or her through a seatback for 5 hours), all while techno music plays in the background.

Since it was breakfast time, I figured I’d order their special oatmeal and an orange juice, which is a perfectly reasonable breakfast. Eventually, the food came around and I was quite pleased with the oatmeal flavored with cinnamon and dried blueberries. The flight attendants got a bit mixed up and gave me two orange juices, which I didn’t want, but drank anyway so I could clear my tray (since it takes forever for them to bring the trash bags).

I fell asleep, which I needed, since I really did only get two hours of sleep the night before. I’m not sure how long I slept, but I woke up and felt like it was 150 degrees on that plane. I am never hot on a plane. I will travel to Phoenix in the middle of summer with a sweatshirt and blanket because of how cold it is on a plane. So I knew something was terribly wrong.

I figured the air conditioning was on the fritz.

I was wrong.

Soon, I started feeling like my stomach was rejecting something, and it felt like whatever that was, it wanted to go south, so I hightailed it to the bathroom (NOW you see why I need an aisle seat?). I made it just in time for the southern expulsion, but fully did not expect the northern spew. And this is where it gets graphic.

Because the northern exit process was unexpected, I didn’t have time to think about the safest route, so I aimed for the toilet. Bear in mind, I was already sitting on it. And I’m sure you recall that I AM IN AN AIRPLANE BATHROOM. So basically, I barfed on myself. In an airplane bathroom. On my shirt, on my pants, on my underwear, and in my hair. I was covered in upchuck.

I spent so much time in that bathroom they should have just assigned it to me as a seat. After the evil, poisonous Virgin America flight food made it out of my body in every direction it could possibly go, I then had to begin the process of cleaning up. If it’s hard to poo and vomit in a tiny bathroom, it’s near impossible to clean it up.

I stank.

I approached a flight attendant and told him an abbreviated version of my ordeal. I had two objectives in mind: (1) My duty to warn other passengers of the potentially life-threatening food on the flight and (2) my duty to find another seat in an unfilled row so as not to disturb my fellow passengers.

The flight attendant denied that the food was rotten in any way, but he at least sat me closer to the front in a row with one other passenger. Unfortunately, he didn’t tell her why and she was sitting in the middle. I didn’t realize that at first, so I didn’t say anything and then, when I figured that out, I just felt it was too late to say anything at all. This poor woman spent the rest of the flight not surrounded by squealing children but sitting next to the creature from the Bog of Eternal Stench.

The upside? They let me use the First Class bathroom after that.