How Do You Know It Ain’t Broke?

Everything that moves wears out, breaks down, and has to be repaired. I suppose the human body is no exception, but there is a very wonderful difference between it and none living objects. The human body will protect and repair itself. It fights off dangerous bacteria and viruses every day. It will seal off and patch cuts, and it will fuse broken bones. Over the centuries of our existence we have learned how to help it do those things by stitching up cuts, setting bones and taking antibiotics to fight infections. All of those medical advancements are good, but for the most part we still depend on the body’s ability to protect and repair itself. I have to admit that I depend on my body’s ability to do that more than most people do. As I have stated before, I have the white coat syndrome. The moment I walk into a doctor’s office my heart rate and blood pressure increase, which makes it very difficult for doctors to get an accurate reading. I hate being poked, prodded and examined. Because of this phobia I have always followed the philosophy of if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. Even on those rare occasions when I am sick I just let the old body do its healing thing.

Recently, however, I have experienced some digestive tract problems. There was a sharp but intermittent pain. Then I noticed that I was passing black stools. Black stools often indicate bleeding in the upper digestive tract, and that scared the hell out of me. I went to urgent care. The doctor there examined me and ordered blood tests. There was no indication of blood in my rectum and the blood tests did not reveal an infection. Still the sharp pains continued off and on. The doctor referred me to a gastroenterologist for a procedure that required the doctor to insert a camera into my throat to my stomach and then into the small intestine. The fasting before the procedure was not all that difficult, but I wondered how was going to keep from gagging during the procedure.

“Don’t worry,” the doctor said as the nurse inserted a needle into my arm. “You will be awake during the procedure but you won’t remember it.”

I do not know what drug was in that syringe, but it sure worked its magic. I do not remember anything that was done from that point on. This procedure did not indicate that anything was wrong with me. Nor did the scans done of my digestive system. Unfortunately, the intermittent pain continued. The severity of the pain, however, decreased and eventually ceased entirely. Now I was faced with what I considered to be a difficult choice. The problem was that the gastroenterologist had also scheduled me for a colonoscopy. There were two things that kept me from canceling that appointment. Since the pain had been intermittent I could not be sure it would not return. I was also past the age when doctors say you should have a colonoscopy as part of your preventative health care program. I fought off my phobia and tried to prepare myself for the unpleasant procedure.

They gave me a gallon container that had a white powdery substance in the bottom of it. If that substance had been mailed to me I am sure I would have viewed it with a great deal of suspicion. Hazmat teams are often called out for less than that. I must admit that I viewed the powder with some foreboding even though I knew what it was. All of the literature about it mentioned its dreadful taste. I was supposed to fill the gallon container with water to dissolve the powder. Then I was supposed to drink all of it at a rate of eight ounces every ten minutes. It came with a flavoring I could add to it, and the instructions said to gulp the eight ounces as quickly as possible. My brother told me the flavoring seemed to make it worse when he had to drink it in preparation for his colonoscopy. He advised me to man up and take it straight. I followed his advice. I cannot say I was pleasantly surprised when I ingested the first eight ounces. It did not go down easily, but the taste was not as dreadful as I had been led to believe. The problem was that I had to drink so much of it, and the taste was cumulative. By the time I finished drinking the full gallon it tasted as dreadful as the warnings indicated.

The fact that this concoction did what it was supposed to do was no great joy either. I had been very strict about my diet for two days and I fasted on the day that I ingested the laxative. I was not about to go through this procedure more than once. As a result of the strict diet and fasting what I expelled was mostly water, and there so damn much of it. I awoke the following morning with a very sore rectum; the thought that someone was going to shove something up it was absolutely appalling. But it was too late to turn back. Believe me, no one in his right mind would go through that preparation without following through with the procedure.

I undressed in one of the examining rooms and put on the gown that left my posterior exposed. They had me lie down on a gurney and wheeled me into another room. The doctor entered.

“We met in another galaxy a long, long time ago. Do you remember?” she asked.

I remembered her, but I did not remember the procedure. I probably should have said yes, but my mind was on what was about to be done to me and I said no.

“You were complaining about black stools at the time.”

“Yes,” I answered.

“The thing to remember this time is not to try to push out the scope I’m trying to insert.”

The fact that people would try to do that came as no great surprise. She was, after all, inserting that scope into an exit. Trying to expel the wrong way driver would be pretty instinctive. But I resolved to try to fight that instinct, and I told her that. I do not know whether I kept that resolve because they gave me the same drug they had given me before. When I became aware of my surroundings again I saw a nurse looking down at me.

“Since I can’t remember the procedure I can only hope that I behaved myself.”

“You were better than most.”

I hope she was not just being polite. The doctor entered and told me she detected no problems that needed further treatment. That was a relief to say the least.

“You’re bound to be a bit sore,” the doctor said. “I know you want to get out of here and get something to eat, but avoid rough or hard to digest foods for the next few days.”

In spite of the bloating from having them treat my bowls like a balloon I really enjoyed my breakfast and the dinner I ate that night. It was not until the next morning that I had finally blown out all of the air they pumped into me, and it was not until I had blown out all of the air that I began to think about doctors and nurses. The doctor who treated me was a very personable lady. I am sure I would enjoy interacting with her when she is not shoving things down my throat or up my butt. That I suppose is one of the problems with being a health care provider. Since doctors and dentists often have to do things that cause pain or discomfort most people do not look forward to seeing them in a professional setting. I hope my phobia does not cause me to do things that make it more difficult for those good people to treat me. I also hope that I have not discouraged any of you from getting the preventative care you need.

The incident I have written about here makes me realize I am reaching an age when more things can go wrong and at a time when my body is less able to heal itself. Early detection is particularly important as you age. I doubt that I will seek all of the preventative care I should get, but I am going to try to get better about doing that.

First published in macsbackporch.fictionforall.com on Nov. 3, 2010