I'd been putting off this colonoscopy as long as possible. First it was fear, then it was the wedding, then moving, then moving again, and then the holidays, and then back to fear. I was primarily worried about the prep. A clear liquid diet for a day and a half doesn't contain a lot of protein or fat, even if you include broth, and for me, that's basically a recipe for hypoglycaemia. Hypoglycaemia is a trigger for my anxiety, as are any digestive difficulties. The entire thing seemed counter-intutive. "You want me to drink poison and purposely make myself ill so that you can figure out if I'm sick?" I agonised over this for months. Finally, it came down to the wire. On St. Patrick's Day, most of my friends were enjoying corned beef and various forms of alcohol and debauchery. I was swigging a vile liquid that tasted like sea water mixed with cough syrup and spending most of the day in the bathroom. I was on the toilet so long that both my legs fell asleep below the knees.
On the morning of the procedure, I had to wake up at 06:00 in order to drink the last litre of shit potion. Of course, I couldn't sleep the night before, and sleep deprivation makes me completely addle-brained and even more prone to anxiety than usual. It got worse and worse, as I sat in the waiting room for an hour and a half with nothing to entertain me but inane talk shows that made me feel as if I were losing IQ points by the minute.
When they finally called me back, I stripped and put on the regulation ass-less hospital gown... and waited some more. They took my vitals three or four times, then tried to hook me up to the IV, tried being the operative word. I warned them that my veins were deeper than they looked (my skin is so fair as to be translucent), and that they rolled. I advised them that alternate sites such as my hands and wrists were a better bet. Well, seven attempts later, and they literally gave up. At this point, it was past 12:00, and I was starving and dehydrated. I wasn't allowed any water, so the longer it took them to get a vein, the harder finding one was going to be. So, they decided to send me to the hospital. I got dressed again and headed across the street. Thankfully, I did not have to wait very long there.
So I stripped down again, and was asked all the same damn questions I'd already answered and sign all the forms I already signed. I was so tired by now that I had trouble remembering the date. After one more unsuccessful stick (totalling nine!), they finally found a vein right under the tattoo of a snake around my wrist. At last, they wheeled me back to the treatment room.
Now, at this point, I just wanted to be done with the procedure and go home. I did not want hours of recovery time. I did not want to be loopy all day. And I was downright phobic of being given a drug that would make me forget what I'd been through. My brain already does that. There are parts of my life that are swiss cheese because of my PTSD. I didn't want some bizarre drug to steal my memories. And I was actually really curious to see my guts. They told me that I could try it without drugs if I wanted to, but it wasn't recommended. I told them I was absolutely sure. Since they got the IV in, they could push drugs if I was in too much discomfort. Fine.
In the procedure room, I spied a tech who made me do a double-take. My first thought was 'Wow, he's cute. If I must be violated, I could do worse.' And then, I noticed his tattoos. He was covered in runes and Norse protective symbols! I was instantly more at ease. Though I could not carry on a conversation with him, I let him know that I was glad there was a fellow Heathen in the room with me. I felt my gods were watching over me.
The procedure was painful, but not so much that I couldn't make it through without the drugs. I just made a lot of grunting noises when they pumped air into my colon, which caused cramping. I was entertained by watching the whole thing on the monitor. They found no obvious evidence of Crohn's or ulcerative colitis, but they took tissue for biopsies and removed a polyp from my rectum. And then it was over. What was meant to be a two-hour procedure ended up a seven-hour odyssey of pain and setbacks, but I felt like a total badass for being able to get through it with minimal panic and no meds.
Matt then took me to get some food, because at this point, I hadn't eaten any solid food for almost 48 hours. With my belly full, I went home and took a long nap. I don't really remember what dreams I had, but when I woke up, and looked at my bruised arms, I realised that I had completed a kind of physical and spiritual trial. I had fasted and then endured complications and pain. At first, I had been so afraid of the procedure that I wanted to be fully anaesthetised, and by the end, I didn't need any help at all.
I think the lesson here was that I have more strength than I give myself credit for, and that I am capable of enduring far more than I believe I am, especially with my husband at my side. Matt was so patient, so kind, so focused on my needs... I love him more every day. There was also a little symbolism for me. In order to gain knowledge, Odin hung himself from the World Tree for nine days; I have nine wounds from my experience. I peered into my own guts without flinching -- metaphorically as well as literally. And what were the chances of my tech being openly Heathen? I think I made my gods proud of me.
I will need to remember this strength when Matt has his surgery on Friday. Dealing with my own fear is one thing, but I know Matt is more afraid of this surgery than he is letting on. I know that the odds are good that everything will be fine, but the "not knowing" is still quite stressful. I want to be there for him and be strong, just as he was for me throughout my prep and procedure. I know he will have the best care, but it's still disconcerting to think of one's spouse having his face sliced open and an organ removed with even the tiniest chance the results will show a malignant growth.
But we'll be okay. I think both of us have more guts than we think.
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