Hi everyone. I haven’t been around much, although you wouldn’t have noticed since I rarely post. I’ve left comments here and there, but haven’t read much because of something I’ve been dealing with for the last few months.
Just about a year ago I began feeling unwell, not my normal self. Fatigue, lethargy, depression…very unusual for me.
So, since they tell us old things to report symptoms like this to our doctors, I went to see what was up. As you’d expect, it was blown off as my age. Apparently, I’m not getting any younger. Who knew?
I should have pursued it, but I always had an excuse not to.
It’s just anxiety, it’ll go away. The holidays, or my vacation is coming up…I don’t want to be in the hospital for them. I’m scared.
But slowly, physical problems began creeping up. I won’t bore (or disgust) you with the details, but my research, and my memories, such as they are, of my mother’s illness, indicated colon cancer.
I had all the symptoms of colon cancer, which we’ve always believed killed my mother 20 years ago and her mother two years later.
My depression got so bad I took it out on my husband. We separated, although we stayed in the same house. We separated emotionally, and I broke his heart.
When my symptoms became debilitating I had no choice but to see a gastroenterologist. He tried to comfort me with the news that there are many reasons for my problems, the least common being cancer.
Then he did a Fecal Occult Blood test, an indicator of colon cancer.
It was positive.
He suggested a colonoscopy in two days, but I freaked out and lied…said I couldn’t arrange coverage at work on such short notice.
He wouldn’t be in for two weeks, he said, and he wanted to perform the procedure himself, so we scheduled it for today.
I had two more weeks to stress, and stress I did…big time.
How will I tell my kids? How can I expect my husband to rise to the occasion and care for me while I go through this after the way I’ve treated him? I don’t want to die so far from my home. I want to go home. I don’t want to die.
And there were other concerns. I don’t recover well from sedation, so I was terrified of being given an intravenous. Will I hear him when he finds the blockage or mass?
As the day drew closer, I drew into myself more and more. I went through the prep for the test the day before…drank the Gatorade stuff, ate broth and green Jello, and prepared myself for the worst news. I didn’t sleep for two nights…the anxiety wouldn’t let me.
We left the house for the 15 minute drive at 9:15 this morning. I couldn’t talk on the way. All I thought about was death row inmates being made to walk to the chamber. I was a dead woman walking, seriously. I felt nothing but sheer terror. Not of the test, not of the sedation. At this point I hoped they would give me so much medication that I’d die without waking up.
I was having a nervous breakdown.
As we waited for my name to be called, my husband took my hand.
He said, “You know how much I love you, don’t you?”
I shook my head no.
He said, “If there were a way for me to go through this, the test, and cancer, if that’s what it is, I’d do it in a minute, because I know you would be ok without me, but I’ll never be ok if you leave me.”
Someone came to get me and walk me to the prep room. She asked if I was ok, was I apprehensive about the test? “No, just the results.”
A nurse came to insert the needle for the IV. She saw how upset I was and asked why. I told her what I’d been going through and, sweet thing that she was, said, “I’ve been here two years now, and seen it all. Not one case of colon cancer so far. Don’t you go messing up my record now, ok?” That was the first time I smiled in weeks.
The doctor came next. He said he’d been thinking about my mother’s case, and it’s very unusual for melanoma to be a primary cause of colon cancer. He believes it started elsewhere and eventually metastasized to her polyp. “Have you ever had a melanoma removed?” No, I do what they call “mole patrols” and never had any type of skin cancer.
“Then I’ll be honest with you. I don’t expect to find anything out of the norm in there.” If I do, and that’s a big ‘if’, we’ll remove it and take care of it.”
They wheeled me into a dark room with three nurses who introduced themselves and said what each would be doing during the procedure.
Me, being Twyla, began making jokes. I always make jokes in that type of situation. Something in my brain tells me if I entertain people they won’t hurt me. Silly, huh? I asked Leigh, the young woman who re-positioned my gurney if she’d push me out to the parking lot for ten dollars. I’d even throw in breakfast at the Golden Corral. She considered it for a minute and said, “Maybe we can work out something after we’re done here.” I love when someone gets me.
They began the sedation without me knowing it. I was beginning to feel comfortable for no reason I could think of. Before I closed my eyes I warned them not to say “uh oh” or anything that sounded remotely like that, like “ew, gross”. Laughter was the last sound I heard.
I didn’t fall asleep like some people do, I was aware, but didn’t care. The doctor asked if I felt anything, but all I felt was cold wetness, which was the liquid they used. I felt nothing at all, nothing.
In what seemed like five minutes, but was actually 45, I was returned to my cubicle where my husband was waiting. I was so high I couldn’t put my clothes on. He handed me my jeans, I dropped them on the floor. He handed me my sneakers, I gave them back to him. Finally, I managed to get my jeans on and stuff my underwear in the pocket. He was laughing to hard to argue with me.
The doctor came in about ten minutes later, put his hand on mine and said, “You do not have cancer.” No preamble, no hesitation. I do not have cancer.
He removed two miniscule polyps for a routine biopsy but he assured me they are not of the type that ever becomes cancerous. I thought all polyps, given enough time, became malignant, but no, they don’t.
I’m telling you all this as much to convince you to have a colonoscopy if you are older as to let you know I’m still here among the living, and I intend to stay for a while.
Everyone wants to regale you with their colonoscopy horror story. It’s nothing. The longer I sit here typing this, the more the memory of it fades. One drug they give you induces a kind of amnesia. The other just makes you feel so damn good.
And the peace of mind is worth all the money in the world.
Thank you my two dear friends who stayed with me here through this whole thing. You both are worth all the money in the world to me, too.
Twyla
