Colonoscopy, by Dave Barry, McClatchy Newspapers
OK. You turned 50. You know you're supposed to get a colonoscopy. But
you haven't.
Here are your reasons:
1. You've been busy.
2. You don't have a history of cancer in your family.
3. You haven't noticed any problems.
4. You don't want a doctor to stick a tube 17,000 feet up your
behind.
Let's examine these reasons one at a time. No, wait, let's not.
Because you and I both know that the only real reason is No. 4. This is
natural. The idea of having another human, even a medical human,
becoming deeply involved in what is technically known as your
'behindular zone' gives you the creeping willies.
I know this because I am like you, except worse. I yield to nobody in
the field of being a pathetic weenie medical coward. I become faint and
nauseous during even very minor medical procedures, such as making an
appointment by phone. It's much worse when I come into physical contact
with the medical profession. More than one doctor's office has a dent in
the floor caused by my forehead striking it seconds after I got a shot.
In 1997, when I turned 50, everybody told me I should get a colonoscopy.
I agreed that I definitely should, but not right away. By following this
policy, I reached age 55 without having had a colonoscopy. Then I did
something so pathetic and embarrassing that I am frankly ashamed to tell
you about it.
What happened was, a giant 40-foot replica of a human colon came to
Miami Beach. Really. It's an educational exhibit called the Colossal
Colon, and it was on a nationwide tour to promote awareness of
colorectal cancer. The idea is, you crawl through the Colossal Colon,
and you encounter various educational items in there, such as polyps,
cancer and hemorrhoids the size of regulation volleyballs, and you go,
'Whoa, I better find out if I contain any of these things,' and you get
a colonoscopy.
If you are a professional humor writer, and there is a giant colon
within a 200-mile radius, you are legally obligated to go see it. So I
went to Miami Beach and crawled through the Colossal Colon. I wrote a
column about it, making tasteless colon jokes. But I also urged
everyone to get a colonoscopy. I even, when I emerged from the Colossal
Colon, signed a pledge stating that I would get one.
But I didn't get one. I was a fraud, a hypocrite, a liar. I was
practically a member of Congress. Five more years passed. I turned 60,
and I still hadn't gotten a colonoscopy. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I
got an e-mail from my brother Sam, who is 10 years younger than I
am, but more mature. The e-mail was addressed to me and my middle
brother, Phil.
It said: 'Dear Brothers, 'I went in for a routine colonoscopy and got
the dreaded diagnosis: cancer. We're told it's early and that there is
a good prognosis that they can get it all out, so, fingers crossed,
knock on wood, and all that. And of course they told me to tell my
siblings to get screened. I imagine you both have.'
Um. Well. First I called Sam. He was hopeful, but scared. We talked for
a while, and when we hung up, I called my friend Andy Sable, a
gastroenterologist, to make an appointment for a colonoscopy. A few
days later, in his office, Andy showed me a color diagram of the colon,
a lengthy organ that appears to go all over the place, at one point
passing briefly through Minneapolis. Then Andy explained the colonoscopy
procedure to me in a thorough, reassuring and patient manner. I nodded
thoughtfully, but I didn't really hear anything he
said, because my brain was shrieking, quote, 'HE'S GOING TO STICK A TUBE
17,000 FEET UP YOUR BEHIND!'
I left Andy's office with some written instructions, and a prescription
for a product called 'MoviPrep,' which comes in a box large enough to
hold a microwave oven. I will discuss MoviPrep in detail later; for now
suffice it to say that we must never allow it to fall into the hands of
America's enemies.
I spent the next several days productively sitting around being
nervous. Then, on the day before my colonoscopy, I began my
preparation. In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any solid
food that day; all I had was chicken broth, which is basically water,
only with less flavor.
Then, in the evening, I took the MoviPrep. You mix two packets of powder
together in a one-liter plastic jug, then you fill it with lukewarm
water. (For those unfamiliar with the metric system, a liter is about
32 gallons.) Then you have to drink the whole jug. This takes about an
hour, because MoviPrep tastes - and here I am being kind - like a
mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of lemon.
The instructions for MoviPrep, clearly written by somebody with a
great sense of humor, state that after you drink it, 'a loose watery
bowel movement may result.' This is kind of like saying that after you
jump off your roof, you may experience contact with the ground.
MoviPrep is a nuclear laxative. I don't want to be too graphic, here,
but: Have you ever seen a space shuttle launch? This is pretty much the
MoviPrep experience, with you as the shuttle. There are times when you
wish the commode had a seat belt. You spend several hours pretty much
confined to the bathroom, spurting violently. You eliminate everything.
And then, when you figure you must be totally empty, you have to drink
another liter of MoviPrep, at which point, as far as I can tell, your
bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have
not even eaten yet.
After an action-packed evening, I finally got to sleep. The next
morning my wife drove me to the clinic. I was very nervous. Not only was
I worried about the procedure, but I had been experiencing occasional
return bouts of MoviPrep spurtage. I was thinking, 'What if I spurt on
Andy?' How do you apologize to a friend for something like that? Flowers
would not be enough.
At the clinic I had to sign many forms acknowledging that I understood
and totally agreed with whatever the h*ell the forms said. Then they led
me to a room full of other colonoscopy people, where I went inside a
little curtained space and took off my clothes and put on one of those
hospital garments designed by sadist perverts, the kind that, when you
put it on, makes you feel even more naked than when you are actually
naked.
Then a nurse named Eddie put a little needle in a vein in my left hand.
Ordinarily I would have fainted, but Eddie was very good, and I was
already lying down. Eddie also told me that some people put vodka in
their MoviPrep. At first I was ticked off that I hadn't thought of this,
but then I pondered what would happen if you got yourself too tipsy to
make it to
the bathroom, so you were staggering around in full Fire Hose Mode.
You would have no choice but to burn your house.
When everything was ready, Eddie wheeled me into the procedure room,
where Andy was waiting with a nurse and an anesthesiologist. I did not
see the17,000 foot tube, but I knew Andy had it hidden around there
somewhere.
I was seriously nervous at this point. Andy had me roll over on my left
side, and the anesthesiologist began hooking something up to the needle
in my hand. There was music playing in the room, and I realized that the
song was 'Dancing Queen' by Abba. I remarked to Andy that, of all the
songs that could be playing during this particular procedure, 'Dancing
Queen' has to be the least appropriate.
'You want me to turn it up?' said Andy, from somewhere behind me. 'Ha
ha,' I said. And then it was time, the moment I had been dreading for
more than a decade. If you are squeamish, prepare yourself, because I am
going to tell you, in explicit detail, exactly what it was like. I have
no idea. Really. I slept through it. One moment, Abba was shrieking
'Dancing Queen! Feel the beat from the tambourine ...' ... and the next
moment, I was back
in the other room, waking up in a very mellow mood. Andy was looking
down at me and asking me how I felt. I felt excellent. I felt even more
excellent when Andy told me that it was all over, and that my colon had
passed with flying colors. I have never been prouder of an internal
organ.
But my point is this: In addition to being a pathetic medical weenie, I
was a complete moron. For more than a decade I avoided getting a
procedure that was, essentially, nothing. There was no pain and, except
for the MoviPrep, no discomfort. I was risking my life for
nothing. If my brother Sam had been as stupid as I was - if, when he
turned 50, he had ignored all the medical advice and avoided getting
screened - he still would have had cancer. He just wouldn't have known.
And by the time he did know - by the time he felt symptoms - his
situation would have been much, much more serious. But because he was a
grown-up, the doctors caught the cancer early, and they operated and
took it out. Sam is now recovering and eating what he describes as
'really, really boring food.' His prognosis is good, and everybody is
optimistic, fingers crossed, knock on wood, and all that.
Which brings us to you, Mr. or Mrs. or Miss or Ms.
"Over-50-And-Hasn't-Had-a-Colonoscopy." Here's the deal: You either have
colorectal cancer, or you don't. If you do, a colonoscopy will enable
doctors to find it and do something about it. And if you don't have
cancer, believe me, it's very reassuring to know you don't. There is no
sane reason for you not to have it done.
I am so eager for you to do this that I am going to induce you with an
Exclusive Limited Time Offer. If you, after reading this, get a
colonoscopy, let me know by sending a self-addressed stamped envelope
to:
Dave Barry Colonoscopy Inducement,
The Miami Herald,
1 Herald Plaza,
Miami, Fla. 33132
I will send you back a certificate, signed by me and suitable for
framing if you don't mind framing a cheesy certificate, stating that
you are a grown-up who got a colonoscopy. Accompanying this certificate
will be a square of limited-edition custom-printed toilet paper with an
image of Miss Paris Hilton on it. You may frame this also, or use it in
whatever other way you deem fit.
But even if you don't want this inducement, please get a colonoscopy.
If I can do it, you can do it. Don't put it off. Just do it. Be sure to
stress that you want the non-Abba version.
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