First, a warning: this piece falls squarely in the realm of TMI. It’s a story about one man and his colonoscopy. I mean, it’s medical, so we could choose to be mature about it. However, I most certainly won’t be. So, if for some weird reason you don’t want to hear about my butt, then this is your off-ramp. Go look at pictures of kittens or something. But if you’re in for a laugh at my expense, then climb aboard. There’s room for everyone in this canoe of discomfort.
At a certain age in Saskatchewan, you get mailed a FIT test. Nope, not the FIT test you do for an N95 mask. This one stands for Fecal Immunochemical Test and it’s a fancy way of saying, “Hey, we mailed you a stick. Please wipe it with poop and mail it back so we can check for anything weird.” So, you don’t want to mix up this FIT test with the one that involves pressing things on your mouth and nose.
I sent the test in and then didn’t think about it again. Until I got a call from the Screening Program for Colorectal Cancer to tell me there were concerns with my results. The nurse said I had won some terrible, reverse lottery and my prize was a colonoscopy. If you aren’t aware of how that works, a doctor takes a camera and sticks it up your bum, pushing it all the way up into your guts. While I salute the noble work they do, I question their choice to specialize in the art of butt spelunking.
After talking with a few people about their own adventures in colonoscopy, they assured me that the procedure itself was no big deal. It was the prep that was the real pain in the arse.
You start on a low residue diet, which sounds like something Gwyneth Paltrow invented. But really it just means: eat beige. You’re getting your colon ready for a look-see, so you can’t eat a bunch of grains, fruits with seeds, or thick, hard to digest steaks.
The worst part of the process came the night before. They sent me to Shoppers Drug Mart to buy a product called Peglyte, which is some kind of super laxative that clears out everything: food, ghosts, whatever’s haunting your insides.
I assumed it would be a reasonably-sized container, like the Restoralax laxative bottle. No. It was the size of a jerry can you’d strap to an army jeep.
Add water, and boom: you’ve got four litres of digestive napalm. You’re supposed to drink two litres of it the night before. Then the other two litres first thing in the morning, the day of the procedure.
There were two different flavours: ‘fruit-flavoured’ and one simply called, “flavoured.” I didn’t know what that generic description could possibly mean, and I will admit I was curious, but I decided to go with the devil I knew — fruit. I knew it wouldn’t taste like fruit. If I was lucky, maybe it would taste like that fake grape Dimetapp flavour that made cold medicine a weird treat as a kid. If I was unlucky, the fake banana flavour.
Turns out it was neither. And I question the fruit label entirely.
I took a sip and registered notes of something fruit-adjacent, like an old skittle found under a car seat, covered in dog hair. It had a seemingly permanent aftertaste of dirty pennies. However, while it was gross, I initially thought it could have been worse. I didn’t get why everyone was whining so hard about it.
Once I started chugging, I understood. That fruit flavour got nastier quickly. It wasn’t the yucky taste that was the real issue. It was the sheer volume of yucky taste. Drinking two litres of anything can be challenging. But by the second pint of this concoction, I was staring into the abyss. There was a lot of grimacing and groaning. The directions said I was supposed to drink it in an hour. It took me an hour and 47 minutes to choke it down.
I was only two pints in when I felt an unholy rumble in my stomach. The kind thing you don’t want in a romantic situation or during a track meet. The next thing I knew, I was in the bathroom, wishing I owned tearaway pants. And here’s where I’ll get gross for a moment: this wasn’t the calm chocolate river from the classic 1987 Dairy Queen commercial.
What came out of my business end was like turning on a hose — water gushing out. It was like evacuating a cursed temple of rectal doom. Man, Peglyte works fast! Why does it take a day for Restoralax to kick in? Where is this fruit-flavoured miracle when you’re bunged up during the course of your normal life?
Once it was done, I went back to my sadness chair to guzzle two more pints of the disgusting drink. More grimacing and groaning, then my stomach would churn again and I’d run for the bathroom. Back and forth, back and forth, for several hours.
Eventually, things settled down and I went to bed. I had one thought: don’t risk a fart in the night or there could be disastrous consequences.
The next morning, I was dehydrated. Hollowed out like a sagging mid-November jack-o-lantern someone forgot to compost. But it was time to start again. I continued the chore of drinking the last two litres, while alternating trips to the water closet. The Peglyte was chilled from sitting in the fridge all night, which helped a bit. Or at least, that’s what I told myself. It’s important to lie to yourself sometimes. Survival lies in optimism.
At about 10:30 AM, my wife and I headed to the hospital, where I got all checked in and slipped into something a little more comfortable: a sexy hospital gown.
I was wheeled into the endoscopy suite, where a handsome young doctor with excellent bedside manner who had made strange life choices was waiting. He told me he could potentially puncture my colon which could kill me or turn my remaining days into a living nightmare, but that this probably wouldn’t happen.
I took this dire warning in stride and asked him to give me, “all the drugs.” The nurse looked at him quizzically and he shrugged and told her to give me the good stuff. It was a potent cocktail of Versed and fentanyl. She mucked with my IV and then told me to turn on my left side, to present myself, like a cat in heat.
After that, it’s an incredibly pleasant blur. I vaguely remember about 20 seconds of watching a nearby screen. I saw a camera wandering through my guts, like a deeply confusing nature documentary or Dennis Quaid in Inner Space. All I felt was an oddly pleasant tickle on my bottom.
The next thing I remember is being back in my original room with my wife and a nurse, who handed me a cup of water and some cookies. What I perceived as about 20 seconds had actually taken about 40 minutes. The Verve has a song about the drugs not working, but these ones sure did.
All-in-all, it was quite a pleasant procedure. I’d do it all the time, if not for the 15 hours of soul-crushing preparation. Joke’s on me though. They ultimately removed some polyps, so the doctor told me I’ll need to do it again in three to five years. I guess I’ll live with the anxiety of that ticking clock until the Peglyte touches my lips once more. Perhaps next time I’ll try “flavoured.”
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