This First Person column is the experience of Stephen Workman, who lives in Halifax. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
At nine a.m., my wife handed me my phone. Somebody wanted to speak with me.
“Hi, Stephen, this is Stephanie. I’m with FIT testing, Nova Scotia.”
FIT stands for fecal immunochemical test. It screens for colon cancer. The test consists of a clear plastic sheet, a tiny garden spade, a sealable container and a stout envelope. I had been avoiding the test for weeks. Finally, I thought, well, it has always been negative. I’ll just get it done.
And then some time after mailing in the test, I usually get a letter. But this time it was a phone call.
Uh-oh.
Stephanie kindly explained that I could have cancer, a polyp, a tumour or nothing, and would I want a colonoscopy?
I pointed out that no one wants a colonoscopy, but I would take the appointment anyway.
She described the steps required to make my colon pristine. As she told me about the pre-procedure diet (bland, colourless and fibre-free, mostly chicken and rice), starting four days before the main event, I started laughing. So much effort, so little reward.
But the thing was, I was thinking: This could really be trouble. I have Parkinson’s disease. I have lived with it for the last six years. If I have cancer, then maybe I get chemo. If I get chemo, then I get chemo brain. I already have Parkinson’s brain. Together, they have got to be a lot worse than either one alone.
When she explained that I might need wet wipes to protect my sensitive bottom from the impending onslaught, I lost it again.
“You only want to do this once,” she said.
“Oh, don’t I know,” I replied.
Did I want the scope at nine in the morning or one in the afternoon? You drink a litre of a laxative called GoLYTELY four hours before the procedure. Or Go Heavily, more accurately. I thought I would be up all night anyway.
“Nine,” I said.
Stephanie was right: get the GoLYTELY icy cold, use a metal straw to the back of your tongue, and it is tolerable.
Barely.
Since I had Parkinson’s disease and constipation, I needed a big old-fashioned double dose.
Let me tell you, this stuff works.
For the first eight to 10 hours, nothing happened.
Then it did.
And then it just kept happening.
At the hospital, little blue footprints led to the colonoscopy suite. It occurred to me this would be an excellent time to get lost, but cancer anxiety had worn me down.
And my wife was with me.
She was empathetic.
“You don’t have cancer,” she said.
Statistically correct. Actually? I wasn’t so sure.
I could tell who was waiting for a colonoscopy. They had worried looks. They were in blue gowns, sitting on hospital towels. They looked like me.
I have veins like fire hoses but when stabbed with an IV needle, they rolled around like marbles. I apologized for them to the nurse.
Ow. Ow. Ow.
IV in place, the nurse smiled and asked if I was pregnant or breastfeeding.
“Not recently,” I deadpanned.
She laughed and told me I had made her morning.
Mine, too.
In the procedure room the nurse asked if I wanted any drugs.
“Sure!”
My colonoscopist reminded me a bit of an NFL linebacker. In my sensitive state, I was aware of his shoulders. He looked me over.
“You’re a tall, slim guy. There are going to be some sharp angles. Some corners that could be a bit tough to get the colonoscope around.”
If there were corners, they were straightened out.
At first it hurt a little. Then I found myself rocked up off the bed, yelling.
“Ow. Ow. Ow. That really, really hurts.”
I was probably heard in the parkade.
Across the road.
I think the medications lowered my inhibitions. That’s my story, and I am sticking to it.
The nurse put a hand on my shoulder.
“It’s better if you just lie still and relax.”
Sure. Easy to do while a garden hose negotiates a hairpin turn. Inside your abdomen.
The last few minutes of a colonoscopy matter most. Mine were fine. And with the medications it seemed like something that happened to someone else. It ended really well, too.
“Everything looked good,” I was told.
I was so relieved.
Having one chronic progressive disease wears down your resistance to having another. The what-ifs expand geometrically.
Going all PSA for just a moment; In Canada, roughly half of colon cancer cases are diagnosed at Stage 2 or 3. And yet many eligible people still do not complete the FIT test. It takes about five minutes. It comes in a very stout envelope. It can sit on bathroom counters for weeks.
I know.
Mine did, too. Put the garden spade to work.
The day after my colonoscopy, I realized that in my drug-addled state, I forgot one very important thing. So here it is.
A sincere thanks.
I am not sure I would have had the, dare I say, intestinal fortitude to complete a colonoscopy on someone like me. But I am glad my colonoscopist did.
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