The Very, Very Unpleasant Colonoscopy

WARNING: Highly graphic blog entry. Stop here if you have a low medical squick threshold.

I have colon cancer so it makes sense that the doctors want to take a look. So, it's the dreaded colonoscopy for me. Why dreaded? Read on, my friend...

It all starts with a low-fibre diet 5 days before the procedure. Love chips? Can't eat it - potatoes are high in fibre. Love fruit or nuts? Can't eat them - high fibre. Love vegetables? Can't eat them raw either. Basically, it's white bread (in small quantities), polished white rice, tasteless skinless chicken, unbattered fish and any number of bland things.

The day before the colonoscopy, I had to switch to a clear fluids diet with nothing red or orange (looks like blood under the scope). No dairy either. I was pretty much drinking clear consomme as my only sustenance.

At 4pm that afternoon, I had to prepare my CoLyte. What's CoLyle? It's a highly effective bowel cleanser - think of it as an enema on steroids except that you have to drink it instead of a more...direct application. It looks like this:

Image credit: Pendopharm/Pharmascience
URL: http://pendopharm.com/product/colyte/

It's a giant 4L jug containing some medicated powder that turns into a clear liquid when mixed with drinking water. You fill the jug with water up to the indicated line and then mix it well before popping it into the fridge - you need it chilled to mask the taste.

At 8pm, I started my first dose of CoLyte: a 250ml cup every 10-15 minutes with the goal of drinking 2L of the stuff in 2 hours, shaking the bottle vigorously before every pour to ensure it's still mixed well. It was supposed to taste like pineapple. For me, it tasted like despair in a cup - it was just horrible. I started sucking on sour candies between gulps. I kept track of the time and the number of cups I've ingested on my handy dandy Magna Doodle.

I lasted 5 cups of the stuff. On the 6th cup, I drank it all down but threw it all up a few minutes later. Fortunately, I was already near a toilet (the diarrhea started by the 3rd cup) so I didn't make a mess. I called Alberta HealthLink (a province-wide medical helpline staffed by registered nurses to take the load off the ERs and clinics), who told me to lie down to rest for an hour before continuing, which I did. I drank the last two cups without any difficulty. By midnight, I was pretty cleaned out inside.

The next morning, I had to take my last dose of CoLyle: same thing as the night before, 2L in 2 hours split between 8 cups of 250ml each. Again, I lasted up to the 6th dose before I threw up. I rested for a half hour before grimly continuing onto the last two doses. By the time I was ready to go to the hospital, I was pretty sure I was clean inside. When the diarrhea slowed down, I hopped into the shower to get clean outside.

My ride to the hospital was uneventful and I reported to the gastrointestinal unit on the main floor of the Peter Lougheed Hospital. They called me pretty quickly and told me to strip down completely, giving me a blue hospital gown to change into. All my personal belongings went into a locker next to my bed, with the key on an elastic wrist strap that I could wear. The usual prep was done (medical history, IV in the arm, medical waivers to sign, etc) and soon I was wheeled into the examination room. The manual probe by gloved fingers was quite uncomfortable but thankfully brief. They started the conscious sedation meds on my IV line and I drifted off...

...except that I drifted back to consciousness when they found my tumour. Goodness me, it looked MASSIVE. They took biopsy samples of the tumour but I didn't feel a thing even as I saw them jabbing it on the screen. They withdrew the scope, cleaned me up and sent me to the recovery room. There, I waited for about an hour while they made sure I wasn't bleeding internally. The cookies and juice were a very welcome repast after two days of clear liquids. I wasn't feeling a lot of pain when they finally told me to dress and sent me on my way with a printed copy of the medical report, complete with colour photos of the tumour.

The first time I went to the toilet after the colonoscopy, the bowl was cranberry juice red, probably residual bleeding from the biopsy. The time after that, it looked normal so I was fine.

It's been several days now since the procedure and I've read the medical report several times. Hard to believe that that large pinkish blob is the thing that's killing me. Felt a bit odd finally seeing my assassin.

Incurable but Treatable

I left work early that Wednesday morning a week ago, saying that I was going to a doctor's appointment over the lunch hour. That was indeed the truth but I didn't elaborate and they didn't ask. I drove the half hour to the Foothills Medical Centre, a large hospital in the NW quadrant of Calgary, Canada but I parked close to my real destination, a largish brown building next to the main hospital building that had large letters on the outside that said, "Tom Baker Cancer Centre".

I checked in at reception and was given a white card that identified me as a cancer patient. Then I was handed a clipboard with some paperwork and told to follow the yellow line to another waiting area. I did so, sat down and started filling the paperwork.

"Do you smoke?" "Have you ever taken recreational drugs?"

Okay, pretty standard questions so far.

"What symptoms concern you today?" was followed by a very long checklist of bad things that patients here can feel. I felt my stomach churning. I checked off a few: nausea, dizziness, diarrhea. I finished the paperwork and sat there, waiting anxiously. It wasn't long before I was called in by a nurse who led me to an examination room and tried to put me at ease. She asked me a long list of questions, confirming my medical history and why I was there. Then she left to fetch a doctor. A medical resident came in, introduced himself and asked me more questions, probing deeper into my medical history this time. He checked my lymph nodes, my lungs and my stomach. The latter was still tender from the liver needle biopsy a week ago. Answering my questions as best as he could, it wasn't long before he left to fetch my oncologist, who I will call Dr. D.

Dr. D's a big fellow who exudes positivity but who also has a sense of gravitas about him. He didn't waste any time: "You have advanced colon cancer. It's incurable but treatable. That means that all we can do is buy you time."

It was pretty much what I had expected so I didn't really flinch. He explained the course of treatment, mainly chemotherapy with some nasty side-effects. I had quite a few questions that the doctors patiently answered. They left and the nurse returned to handle the administrivia of setting up my appointments, explaining the services offered by the Tom Baker Cancer Centre, what my prescriptions were for and gave me a booklet-sized green packet of informational material. She then took me on a tour of the Cancer Daycare, an odd name for the chemotherapy treatment area.

The nurse was trying to be cheerful as she saw me out of the area. It's hard for me but by the look in her eyes, I'm sure it's hard for the nurse too, seeing so many cancer patients everyday. I walked out to my car, clutching the thick green packet. I have a lot to read, then I suspect a good cry is in order.

Canmore Highland Games 2015 - Massed Bands

It was starting to drizzle when the call came: form up for practice. I carefully assembled my bagpipes, stowed the carrying case and walked out into the rain. We warmed up and tuned our pipes for a few precious minutes before our pipe major motioned us into a circle, where we played a few tunes to an appreciative crowd that had gathered before heading off to the muster area, a small side street next to Centennial Park (the games venue) where about 500 pipers and drummers would soon gather. In a matter of minutes, we were formed into two groups, a necessity because there were so many of us. The call came through and the first group blew up their pipes and marched forward to the cheers of the crowd.

We stood there, in the rain, waiting for our turn. I was in the second row of pipers, near the middle of the group. I checked my lines to either side of me to make sure I was straight with the others and jammed my glengarry firmly on my head in case the wind picked up. Our drum majors, who had been listening to the progress of the first group signalled us to begin playing. The drummers sounded the beat and we pipers struck in our drones. On the order to march, we set smartly forward.

Through the gates and into the park we marched, the smiling crowd cheering us on as we rejoined the first group. The sound was deafening. I kept playing while taking care to keep in time and step with the others. Then came the countermarch, the U-turn maneuver that bands do upon reaching the end of a field. I followed the piper in front of me, quick-turning right at the exact spot he turned and immediately swivelled sideways to allow for the two rivers of pipers streaming on either side of me.

We marched, stopped, played some more then marched off the field still playing strong to the delight of the crowd. We quickly dispersed at the muster area - the massed band event of the Canmore Highland Games had been concluded, as were the games.

I was wet, cold and couldn't stop beaming. What my pipe major had said was true: you felt invincible and ready for anything upon playing the pipes.

That was a good day.

A good day

I woke up today feeling pretty good. The persistent sharp pain in my abdomen was gone, I wasn't feeling nauseous and I didn't have bloating or diarrhea. There was a definite spring to my step when I headed off to work.

The morning went as it usually does, a mixture of boredom, stress and concentration. I went off to Safeway to find something low-fibre to eat as I was supposed to start on a special diet in advance of my colonoscopy next Tuesday. Lo and behold, I found a low-fibre chicken carbonara frozen dinner that fit the bill and grabbed a package of surimi sticks (rolls of flavoured haddock made to look like crabmeat) to add more protein. It was a good, tasty lunch, better than what I was expecting.

I worked for a bit and started feeling a little tired. I looked out the window and saw that it wasn't half bad outside with some scattered clouds - I used to love cloud-watching when I was a child. Reaching a decision, I grabbed my coat and popped across the street to the Starbucks to get a tall white chocolate mocha then returned to my office grounds to find a relatively clean bench. Sitting there, I sipped my coffee and watched the clouds for a while. It was really overcast so there were more clouds than sky. Undeterred, I found patterns in the holes between the clouds. That one looked like a Firefly-class transport from the TV series of the same name. That large one with the delicate filamentary strands looked like a gremlin, with the long ears too. The wind picked up and I pulled my hood up, sipping my coffee and trying to be present to soak all this in.

I ran out of coffee eventually and headed back in, not without a twinge of sadness. I have so few days where I'm pain-free now, yet this is the first time in years that I've taken the time to go cloud-watching.

A few hours later, the pain started again. But at least I had a few good hours when I felt normal.

Licking Mars

Back in 2007, I was attending the annual General Assembly of the Royal Astronomical Society of Canada when we were given a tour of the meteorite lab near the university which included handling items not normally available to the public. There, I had the amazing opportunity to handle meteorites from the Moon and Mars. These were formed when pieces were blasted off the Moon or Mars by particularly large strikes by comets or asteroids, pieces which eventually ended up on Earth as meteorites.

I was breathless when I held the Mars meteorite. Mars! In my hands! Wow!

I had a sudden, out-of-character, spectacularly ridiculous urge to lick it. Maybe I'd be the first person to taste Mars! Of course, I didn't ACTUALLY act of my urge which would have contaminated the sample - I am a scientist first and foremost.

Now, eight years later, I'm dying. I've just been told that I have incurable, final stage colon cancer that's spread to the liver, possibly other organs too. Treatment will only buy me time but even that has to end sometime.

It's said that what matters isn't the years of your life but rather the life in your years. I'm 43 years old and my biggest regret in life is not licking Mars when I had the chance, so I feel I've lived quite satisfactorily.

This is the last blog of my life. The median survival rate of people in my spot is 1 person in 10 over 5 years, with most patients dying at about the 2 year mark after they've been diagnosed. I don't know how long I've got, be it 6 months or maybe 2-3 years but I'm going to keep writing until I'm dead. I'll be documenting some of my medical stuff here - it won't be pretty but they're here for other cancer patients. To even it out, I'll also be blogging the moments of joy I encounter as life continues. I hope I can share some joy or at least bring a smile to you in my writings here.