Colonoscopalooza

One of the downsides of being a brazenly oversharing chatty cathy like myself is that I while I might excel at turning relatively banal, workaday anecdotes into arguably compelling narratives (witness the recent "Mystery Package" saga as an example of same), every now and then I unwittingly tee up something that, in retrospect, I might have otherwise preferred to keep to myself.

Last week, in fidgety anticipation of both the fearsome prep and procedure of my first colonoscopy (a box I should have checked off three years ago), I took to the blog to post a floridly overwritten rumination on my penchant for procrastination and the mounting tolls of my advancing years. Sensing I might at least coax a compelling cautionary tale out of my experience and/or strike a chord with readers of a comparable age, I set the table, so to speak, for a larger piece about the episode after all was done and dusted. Much like the afore-cited “Mystery Package” story, I assumed, based on the testimonies of friends of mine who’d had colonoscopies, that the second part of the story would be banal and anticlimactic. “You get cleaned out,” they said, “ ya have a nice nap, ya wake up and then they tell ya to come back in seven years.” Sounds pretty simple, right?

Well, not so fast.

Most of that rang true. While a long way from pleasant, the prep wasn’t really anything too traumatic, and not nearly as ….er… explosive as I was anticipating. Fasting is never fun, but at no point did I ever feel like I was going to expire from hunger. I checked in the following morning, got hooked up to an I.V. (probably the worst part, for me, as I hate needles and getting tethered to things), and in no time at all, I was wheeled into “the procedure room.” They positioned me on my side and asked what I did for a living. About a third of the way into my invariably windy explanation of what a director of content and editorial services does for the corporate communications department of a performing rights organization (I’m sure they were riveted), I was out cold.

Next thing I know, I’m waking up in a sort of recovery alcove and am informed that my wife is on her way to pick me up. As I’m gradually regaining my cognizance, my pointedly dispassionate gastroenterologist pops his head around the curtain to tell me that they found and removed “a bunch of polyps” while spelunking in what Coil once called “The Anal Staircase.” This is not the news I was looking for. He then says that I am to come back for another colonoscopy next year. Not seven years. Not five years. Next year.

Now, given the eternal flame of guilt that burns deep within me, I project (probably correctly) that the preponderance of polyps they encountered in my …er… posterior is the consequence of my having not attended to this matter sooner. Had I gone and gotten this done when I was supposed to a few years ago, they could have nipped these problems in the bud (literally) and not had to contend with the “bunch” (technically seven, if I’m parsing their pathology tissue report correctly) that they excised.

I expect to get a more digestible summary of their findings later this week. I’m assured that they removed what needed to be removed, and while I completely understand why they want to have another look next year, I remain a little shaken by the whole experience, especially upon hearing shortly afterwards that my maternal grandmother grappled with (and was ultimately felled by) the same issue.

So, yeah — don’t procrastinate, kids. Get your colonoscopy when it’s time. Spare yourself the rude awakening.