So, my ass is bleeding, and I\u2019m not the adventurous sort. All I want is a normal day, but each wipe is a Japanese flag. A big red flag. Colon cancer took my mom\u2019s life, but I don\u2019t overreact. I don\u2019t. I probably underreact.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s not like a hemorrhoid. We\u2019re talking substantial blood. I meet with an enterologist, and we schedule a colonoscopy because this is 2023 and affordable health insurance exists.<\/p>\n
There\u2019s nothing new in colon prep. I drink their chalky jugs of modified Roto Rooter, and they work. Most users report being unable to sleep due to constant trips to the bathroom. Not this guy. Depending on how tired I am, I can sleep through a lot.<\/p>\n
An awful lot.<\/p>\n
So, I\u2019m doing laundry at 3:00 AM, really disappointed in myself, when it hits. Mom did laundry in the middle of the night. I was a kid and blamed her nervous personality.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I\u2019m under for the colonoscopy, which is a breeze. They\u2019re in and out, and so am I, with one big catch. They label it \u201cincomplete,\u201d thanks to my \u201ctortuous colon.\u201d Although it sounds judgmental, tortuous<\/em> means twisted<\/em>. They can\u2019t get the camera any farther without risking perforating the colon, so I get to schedule and prep for another procedure, a virtual colonography.<\/p>\n A \u201cvirtual colonography\u201d sounds whimsical, like you could handle it over Zoom, about as menacing as fireflies, despite being designed by Human Resource demons from Dante\u2019s Seventh Layer of Compliance Paperwork.<\/p>\n Perhaps they introduce themselves first, but with zero anesthesia, a tech shoves a large Lego rectangle up your ass, attached to a hose and a tank of oxygen. Maybe helium. They never explain the rectangular connection. They just pump you up like some pre-twisted balloon animal, inflating your intestines fuller and fuller and fuller still, until you\u2019re left KNOWING you are going to explode. They continue until all you\u2019ve ever known is a cramp, then they tell you not to fart. You don\u2019t want to fart so much as live, but they warn if you pass gas, they\u2019ll have to start all over.<\/p>\n Still pumping, they take images with a gigantic apparatus that costs several thousand dollars to turn on, according to billing.<\/p>\n \u201cHold it\u2026 Steady\u2026 Hold. You\u2019re doing great. Just a few more seconds. Hold it. And\u2026 keep holding that for me\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n I\u2019m about to fucking pop. I mean it. Something\u2019s about to rupture. Me!<\/p>\n \u201cAlmost there\u2026 annnnnd\u2026Wait.\u201d<\/p>\n Fuck you!<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cAnd, we\u2019re done.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGet this thing out of my ass!\u201d I yell at the closest tech, which is a bad look. She bites down on her cheeks to hide a smile and pulls it out. I sqwaddle off to the restroom, my hands in the air, a giant baby in a hurry.<\/p>\n Sweeping the hospital gown aside, I come out sounding like Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker, if they were louder than KISS. I alert the building. Even after all the colon prep, the longer I trumpet, the wetter it gets, sounding more like cold starting an old four-stroke outboard.<\/p>\n This red flag is enormous. Copious amounts on a white wad of Charmin. I jump up to check, and I\u2019ve recreated the Shining elevator. I\u2019m bleeding to death.<\/p>\n Hang on.<\/p>\n \u201cPHRAMBAAM-BALAM! BRIGADA-BOOMPH\u2026 SQUEE?\u201d<\/p>\n I laugh. I can\u2019t help it. I\u2019m so fucked.<\/p>\n I flush, but the bowl is stained a vibrant pink, with pink splashes up the sides. Perhaps it\u2019s the combination of blood and barium, but I see there are no cleaning supplies here. Because this, too, will be humiliating.<\/p>\n I\u2019ve never stained a toilet. Never heard of such a thing. This has to be a sign. From Mom, I suppose. That this isn\u2019t going away. That it will take a lot more than flushing. That I do have colon cancer, like hers. This is a warning.<\/p>\n I have to go tell the technicians. About their bathroom, not the cancer. Goddammit.<\/p>\n \u201cStained?\u201d repeats the young woman I\u2019d yelled at.<\/p>\n \u201cPink. Sorry, but it\u2019s everywhere. Well, that sounds worse… It\u2019s the toilet. Which you might want to shut down until a janitor\u2026 It\u2019s hot pink.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve got to see this,\u201d the sturdier one announces and leaves.<\/p>\n \u201cHave fun,\u201d her coworker says, making a face. Then, to me: \u201cIt happens.\u201d She doesn\u2019t sound like she believes that.<\/p>\n \u201cColon cancer,\u201d I want to tell her, but I\u2019m dressed and it\u2019s time to go. Not time to air my fears, not to some kid fresh out of school who will not care that when I was a teen, doctors found a grapefruit-size tumor in Mom\u2019s colon and gave her six months. How the acids leaking around her colostomy bag burned the tender skin around her stomach. How she hated that colostomy bag. How we all did.<\/p>\n Mom had a lot of help around her. Dad, my sister and sisters-in-law, neighbors. I did whatever I could, cooking, bringing the Scrabble board to her bedside like she did when I was sick. I look around now and I\u2019m divorced, no kids, no safety net, with only myself to blame.<\/p>\n It\u2019s a long drive home, and I wish the car radio still worked. Instead, I get \u201cPop Goes the Weasel\u201d repeating through my head before I notice. I am not my father\u2019s intellectual equal. Maybe my mind knows it needs numbing, that this much is too much.<\/p>\n The bleeding stops, but three long days pass before the results come in, and they\u2019re dark days, obsessing on death and poverty, wondering about the price of morphine, the real cost of suicide, and who\u2019d find the body.<\/p>\n My results post online before I get a phone call, and medical school isn\u2019t necessary to decode the standalone phrase at the top, although I\u2019m jarred when I spot that awful last word out of the corner of my eye:<\/p>\n \u201cNo large polyps, masses or malignancy.\u201d<\/p>\n It\u2019s not.<\/p>\n Turns out to be hemorrhoids, of which we all have three. Mine have spotted in the past, but all three must have been really bleeding, then the test burst them open (something about a rectangle and 37,000 PSI). I\u2019m told that they\u2019ll always return unless I act, and that there\u2019s a simple procedure. Sticking a chunky Jetson\u2019s toy gun barely up your butt, they pop a tiny rubber band around each hemorrhoid, which shrinks down until it sloughs right off. Three visits, three bands. We proceed, and it couldn\u2019t be easier. Takes seven seconds. No pain, just a little pressure, they do fall off, and I only ever spot one of the deflated pencil erasers in the toilet bowl. Results may vary.<\/p>\n By now, I\u2019ve met my deductible and out-of-pocket. The toy gun up the butt, which sounds more like something a six-year-old best friend might do? Complimentary. I\u2019m only beginning to learn all the perks of becoming a frequent flier\u2014or balloon animal. Colon balloons will be part of my preventive checks from now on. But I\u2019ve eliminated the cause of one hell of a colon cancer red flag. Should that red flag return, I\u2019ll know not to expect such a happy ending. But at least for the rest of 2023, I can guarantee what no hospital gown can\u2014my ass is covered.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" So, my ass is bleeding, and I\u2019m not the adventurous sort. All I want is a normal day, but each wipe is a Japanese flag. A big red flag. Colon cancer took my mom\u2019s life, but I don\u2019t overreact. I probably underreact.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":25095,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[760],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-24123","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-creative-nonfiction","writer-sean-mcfadden"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24123","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=24123"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24123\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":25096,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24123\/revisions\/25096"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/25095"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=24123"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=24123"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=24123"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}