The Big C (for real this time)

Prep was as advertised, like drinking thick, greasy saltwater. We’re getting ready to leave. Hope this place is better than the last at dispensing the sedatives.

And we’re back. Am both very drowsy and giggly-buoyant, which is a weird combination. I finally managed to let some of the drowsiness take over by popping in Star Trek VI and pouring myself a cup of Sleepytime.

The procedure went amazingly well, especially when I compare it point by point with my first colonoscopy. Perhaps it’s unfair to compare the two, because for the 2003 one, I was a hot mess of pain and bleeding from My Very First Flare, and for this one? My guts were as quiet as a bowl of farina. But still – in the interest of POSTERITY:

2003: Nurse no. 1 spends five painful minutes trying to get an IV into the back of my hand. “Do you tan?” she asks in frustration as she pokes the crook of my arm instead. “Er – no,” I reply, not sure if I really need to explain why I’m dehydrated when she has my freaking chart with my freaking symptoms on the bed.

2011: Nurse A warns me, “this will sting,” and then gently threads a needle into my arm. Easy peasy.

2003: Nurse no. 2 explains they will be using a combo of Versed and Demerol. This turns out to be a partial rather than full sedation, and I wake up halfway through the procedure and see my guts on the TV near the bed. Neat! And ow, ow ow ow, like the worst gas you’ve ever had, if you feel like imagining along.

2011: Nurse B explains that we will be using “the Michael Jackson drug” or propofol. Apart from the really terrible moniker, it sounds preferable. The anesthesiologist, Doctor Dude, comes in and assures me in a monotone that it will be AWESOME.

2003: I sit drooling in a chair (from what I now think was an OD of the V/D combo) and the nurses try to get me to sign some form. I can’t remember if I signed. Eventually after what felt like an hour, my folks came back and picked me up.

2011: “Oh, you’re going to Branson?” I say to Doctor Dude as he puts electrodes on my chest. “I have a friend who works at Silver Dollar City. You should go there.”
“I will,” says Doctor Dude, and he starts the anesthesia. I can feel and taste it in my throat, it’s like sulphur, and I tell him so. “But yeah, Silver Dollar City…”
“What are you talking about?” asks A.
“Oh, Branson. I’m telling the doctor he should go to Silver Dollar City – ” Wait a minute. A. is here. “Did they start yet?”
“It’s already over,” A. says, and laughs at me. We get really giggly for a few minutes, and then my gastro comes in with pictures of my colon. Apparently it was remarkably clean in there.* She points out where she found some tiny bumps and clipped them out for testing, but it all looked nice and healthy.**
“So it looks like the drugs are working!” she chirps. A. and I giggle some more and she signs me out. I get dressed, the nurses walk me out to the car, and we go home. I’m not even sore. THE END.

TL;DR/In short? It went better than I could have hoped. The worst part was the prep.

And now, because I threatened it back when I first started this blog, and although I no longer possess a scanner, I am not deterred, ladies, gentlemen, and all the rest of you, the pics:


(Intestinal pics ahead.)
(They’re really not that scary.)
(In fact, they’re pretty blurry since this is a secondhand job.)
(And I also edited them a little bit.)
(But if colons are not your thing, no problem – you may want to skip the rest of this post.)
(Sorry, A.)


Hurray, it’s over.

* Damn you, prep.


2 thoughts on “The Big C (for real this time)

  1. “…as quiet as a bowl of farina…” I think that wins the prize as Best Analogy Evah. Glad it went well, and what lovely innards you have. All shiny and orangey. Are they really orange, or is that the lighting? If they really are, you should tan less cause apparently it's soaking through.

    And did they really say “the Michael Jackson drug” ? Seeing as how he ended up, well, DEAD that's not exactly the bedside manner one might like ;)


  2. Hahaha, thanks! They really look that orangey, apparently – I knew I shouldn't have bought that George Hamilton spray-on formula.

    And yes – she really called the drug that! It was…awkward. A. gave me this look like, Baby, you know I can pull the car around right now, right?


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