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In 2010 I developed abdominal pain and discovered I had diverticulitis. You can read all about that fun-filled ER trip where I had a pelvic exam. By a 20 year old male doctor. In a curtained room in the ER. When I had my period. Yeah, I know, but what can I say? Not everyone is as lucky as me.
Fast-forward to 2018. I've had multiple diverticulitis attacks. I'm tired of being hospitalized at inconvenient times. Or you know, any time. The bout I had last month was especially severe, almost necessitating emergency surgery, so after consulting with two surgeons, I decided it was time for surgery to eliminate the problem before it became a life-threatening emergency.
Here's a quick run-down if you aren't familiar with it. Diverticulosis or diverticular disease is when little bulging pouches form in your colon (large intestine.) According to research, about half of all people over the age of 60 have it and for most, it causes no problems. For some people, however, these pouches can become infected (diverticulitis.) Diverticulitis can usually be cleared up with a clear liquid diet and antibiotics. Sometimes, the infection causes perforation of the colon or other complications that necessitate emergency surgery.
So, to that end, I head to the hospital tomorrow for a laparoscopic bowel resection. I'm super-looking forward to it, and I'll tell you why.
1. The colonoscopy-like prep involved. Today, the 4th of July will not include a BBQ for me. I'll be partaking of delicious foods like broth and jello instead. There won't be fireworks for me tonight, but never you worry. I will have my own explosives. Out of my butt. Locked in my bathroom all evening. You can read those enchanting details here. Into the Tunnel of Darkness: My Colonoscopy
2. The weight loss. Not eating for a few days and consuming only clear liquids for a few others should garner me a loss of a couple pounds. It's probably unrealistic to hope that my sigmoid colon weighs 30 pounds, huh? But any loss is a loss, amiright?
3. No cancer. When I wake up from the anesthesia, I don't have to worry if the doctor was able to get all the cancer like so many people who have this surgery for colon cancer. This is why it's so important to get regular colonoscopy screenings. Just do it!
4. Being lazy. I can lie in my hospital bed (which is as comfy as a slab of cement or a bed of nails) all day watching SpongeBob without feeling guilty.
5. The surgery itself. Because I am completely stupid was curious, I watched six one videos of the surgical procedure on YouTube. I understand that they'll make 4 or so incisions to do the laparoscopic surgery. I'm down with that. Once the diseased portion of bowel is removed, they have to attach the two ends of healthy colon together some way. I get that. What I did not know until I was enlightened by this video is that they attach the two ends together by going through your butt. Just another added layer of fun!
6. The possibility of a poop bag. Although, because this is a scheduled surgery and not an emergency one, the doctor doesn't anticipate me needing a colostomy, he did caution me it was a possibility. Sure, life will go on if I have to empty my bowels into a bag instead of the toilet. This little gem will just be one more reason for single men to line up around the corner for the chance to date me.
7. The tubes. I was told I'd have a catheter in my bladder that would stay there for a day after surgery. I was also told I'd have a tube down my nose into my stomach that would be removed after surgery, but is oftentimes reinserted because of vomiting. And let's not forgot the IV for fluids and medicine. I'm thinking with all these strings attached, I can pretend to be a marionette. That'll be fun.
7. The possibility of clots. Because I have a clotting disorder and a history of blood clots in my leg and lung, I'm at greater risk for this complication after surgery. But, I do get to wear super-sexy compression devices that will squeeze my legs as I lie there watching cartoons and reruns of The Office.
8. The vacation. No kids to care for. No dinners to make. No errands to run. No groceries to buy. No bathrooms to clean. I mean, why do you think I had 6 kids? For the mini hospital vacations, of course!
9. The visit with my parents. Little do they know this surgery is just a ploy to get them to come visit us!
10. Vomiting of epic proportions. Anesthesia makes me sick. Let me clarify. Anesthesia makes me so violently ill that I retch from the tips of my toes. You guys know how I feel about throwing up. I mean, I'm sure no one really LIKES to vomit, but I absolutely detest it! I pray fervently whenever I get that stomachache that tells me its contents are about to be evacuated. "Please God, I beg of you, keep me from throwing up! Pleeeeeaaaaassssseeee! I'll do anything! I'll move to Africa and be a missionary. I'll give up chocolate, wine, and guacamole forever! I'll stop yelling at idiot drivers! Just say the word, God!'
Now imagine doing it while you're completely groggy and in pain from abdominal surgery. Of course I'll talk to the anesthesiologist before the surgery. But I know what's going to happen. He'll promise to give me top-of-the-line, heavy-duty, anti-nausea drugs. He'll swear I won't get sick this time. He'll assure me he'll take care of me so I don't get violently ill. In other words, he'll lie. And after my surgery, when I'm forcefully expelling my intestines into the ridiculously small barf tray they give you, he'll ask if he can include me in his article about weird anesthesia reactions.
So there you have it. Honestly, for a good week I was waking up every night, my heart racing with anxiety about the whole thing. But I've been praying and I feel peaceful about it now. There's no reason to worry because God is with me. :)
Still, if you're the praying sort, say a prayer that I don't throw up. I don't care about pain or needing a colostomy. I just don't want to vomit!
Tuesday night I went to bed with some pain in my abdomen, thinking it was just a little gas. Every time I began to doze, the pain awakened me. By the time my alarm went off in the morning, I was wide awake, in horrible pain, running a fever, and fully aware that I was suffering from another bout of diverticulitis. My sixth bout of diverticulitis.
Still, I like to live in complete denial of medical issues so I waited a few hours, convinced that, through sheer willpower, I could stave off an infection. My rising temperature and my inability to stand up straight said otherwise, so around 1:00, I headed to the hospital. Because I believe the medical care down here will kill you is subpar like I wrote in my blog post HERE, I debated where to go. There's only one hospital in Central Florida that I've visited and have not hated with a burning passion, so one would think that I would go to that hospital. But I did not.
Now, I have a reason for this! A perfectly good reason! And that reason makes total sense! Hear me out! I didn't go to the not-horrible good hospital because the emergency department in Winter Garden doesn't have any rooms; it's just an emergency facility. So I came up with the brilliant plan of going there because I knew they couldn't admit me; they'd have to send me on my merry way with a couple prescriptions for antibiotics! That idea was foolproof! Only I didn't take into account the possibility that they'd transfer me to another Florida Hospital.
via GIPHY
A white cell count over 20,000, a fever, and a CT scan showing extensive inflammation earned me a fun little ambulance ride to a larger hospital. The paramedics who transported me were all nice and friendly, but none of them looked like this:
When the hospital sends me a survey about my experience, I have some things to say about that.
A surgeon was called in for consultation. His assessment is that I will continue to have attacks and if I do nothing, it's just a game of Russian roulette until my intestines explode and I need emergency surgery. Although they could have done the surgery while I was in the hospital, the surgeon said I'd be better off waiting 4 to 6 weeks until the infection and inflammation were under control. By waiting, according the surgeon, there's less of a chance of needing a colostomy. I thought that was a great suggestion because it combines two things I love: procrastinating and not pooping in a bag.
I will say that everyone, from the ladies who registered me to the nurses and the CT tech, in the Florida Hospital in Winter Garden was nice. They were concerned with keeping my pain and nausea controlled, and making sure I was comfortable. The doctor was friendly, compassionate, had a sense of humor, and checked on me more than once while I waited. And I will say that the Florida Hospital in Apopka where I was transferred was nice. My room was big and clean. But seriously, with all the advances in hospitals, you'd think they would've realized the beds suck! You'd think that maybe they could've come up with something a little more comfortable. Like a slab of concrete. Or a bed of nails. But the nurses who cared for me were nice and compassionate. They always asked if there was anything they could do for me.
However . . .
Late Wednesday night they took me for an MRI. I asked why they needed it since the CT scan had shown them what they needed to know. I was told, "Just to get a better look." Okay. As it turns out, I learned the next day, they wanted a better look at a mass they'd seen on my liver in the CT. If anyone had bothered to tell me this, I could've let them know that I was already aware of the mass and had already had an MRI like a year ago, and already knew it was a benign hemangioma. But thanks for bumping up my bill, guys. Appreciate it.
On Thursday evening, I was allowed some clear liquids. The surgeon takes a look at the clear liquid diet sitting mostly untouched on my tray and says that I shouldn't be eating or drinking anything at all for another couple days. Okay. TMI alert - Infection in your colon + strong antibiotics = massive diarrhea. Or well, I guess not massive exactly if you haven't eaten for 2 days, but still. In the middle of the night I had a little um, accident. (It takes a while to get out of bed when you're hooked up to a heart monitor and an IV!) I cleaned up and was changing into a new pair of underwear when a male tech walked in. Yeah. I have super-lucky timing that way. He was concerned my heart monitor had come off, so in the dark, before I had even finished pulling up my undies with one hand because my other hand had a death grip on my IV pole so I didn't fall over from overwhelming dizziness, he grabbed my hospital gown, pulling it out from my neck as he messed around with the leads on my chest. Awkward. He didn't even buy me dinner.
On Friday, the PA from surgery told me I could try a liquid diet. About 2 seconds after she left my room, someone came in with a tray of spaghetti and meatballs, grapes, and milk. I told her I couldn't eat that because I was on clear liquids. She argued with me that no, I'm on a regular diet. Ummm no. I literally just talked to the doctor! She didn't believe me, but agreed to bring me a new tray with vegetable broth and tea anyway. No sooner did she bring me a new tray than the nurse came in telling me I'm on a regular diet and I'm ready to be discharged.
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Then a person, who I can only surmise was Frank Abagnale Jr. impersonating a doctor, came in and told me I couldn't leave until I could eat a regular diet. When I asked him, "Why?" he didn't have an answer. Since he had apparently never encountered someone with diverticulitis, even though it's a very common problem, I enlightened him a bit. "Listen buddy! I have had this SIX times. And EVERY time, I have been discharged from the hospital on a clear liquid or perhaps a bland brat diet. I will not be able to eat SPAGHETTI AND MEATBALLS for some time!" (There is much debate on what kind of diet can prevent diverticular disease and/or flare-ups of diverticulitis, but everyone agrees that when you're healing from an infection, you need a bland, low-fiber diet for a couple weeks.)
He left and I burst into tears because that's what I do. I missed Clay's band concert on Thursday night and I was stuck there missing his 8th grade dance. I felt awful that my Littles had been left to their own devices for what felt like a week and a half. I felt sorry for myself because being a single mom when you're sick sucks. No one to take care of me. No one to take care of my kids. But I've got to say that Lexi is the awesomest! She took care of Clay and Brooklyn. She bought them dinner and made them go to bed before 2:00AM. She brought me clothes and toiletries and came to visit me every day. I'm so grateful for her help!
Anyway, while I was bawling, the nurse supervisor person came in and talked to me. I expressed my frustration that no one seemed to be on the same page, and I just want to go home. I shouldn't be expected to eat a regular diet in order to leave. I asked why on earth would they bring me spaghetti and meatballs. Why not just plain noodles or mashed potatoes or white rice or a piece of bread? She was sympathetic and said she'd do her best to get me discharged that night. She came back in with some mashed potatoes and said if I tolerated my dinner I could go home. Those were the best mashed potatoes ever!
Want to know what they brought me for dinner?
Corn. And black beans. Because everyone knows how easy it is to digest corn and beans. The perfect food for a person healing from a vicious intestinal infection.
via GIPHY
I didn't eat it, of course. I left anyway. (Thank you Austin and Codi for picking me up!) I'm home and the pain is much, much better, however the nausea and dizziness from the evil antibiotics is in full force. And I guess I'll be scheduling surgery for this summer which is good timing since I won't have to take time off from the school at least. But I'm still not looking forward to it for oh, so many reasons, not the least of which is the colonoscopy-like prep.
After having two bouts of diverticulitis in less than a year, my doctor urged me to get a colonoscopy. At the mere mention of the word colonoscopy, my butt cheeks involuntarily clenched. From what I'd heard, I knew that colonoscopies were only slightly worse than being stretched on the rack, getting buried alive, or taking your kids grocery shopping. I decided to make an appointment, but the whole "diarrhea of epic proportions and a camera shoved up my butt" thing held me back. After procrastinating for the maximum allowable time, I finally picked up the phone. (The maximum allowable time is different for men and women. Since I'm a woman and therefore not a big baby, I could only procrastinate for a year. Men can procrastinate for more than 10 years.)
When I had my consultation, the nurse explained the procedure and gave me a couple different options to prepare for the test. Prepare for the test. This is where the deception starts. In my world, prepare for the test means study and memorize how to conjugate irregular verbs in Spanish. But that's not the kind of preparations or tests they're talking about.
One of the options she gave me was to drink some concoction called GoLytely. Go lightly. Well, that sounds nice. It's the name of Audrey Hepburn's lovable character in Breakfast at Tiffany's. Lightly. Go lightly. It sounds nice and calm. Deception number two.
The first two choices she gave me entailed drinking some sort of vile liquid. I knew I wouldn't be able to get down, let alone keep down, any kind of disgusting drink. I had flashbacks to the many glucose tolerance tests I've taken while pregnant. Take my word on this, the technicians do not like it when you throw up on them. I asked the nurse, "Do you have a third choice? How about an xray? A blood test? Anything less um, icky?"
She said, "Well, since you're young and healthy, you could take pills instead, but we'd need to do bloodwork first to make sure your kidney function is okay. And if you opt for the pills, you need to take 32 of them and you'll need to drink 8 ounces of water every time you take the pills."
"Water I can handle," I said, relieved I wouldn't have to drink any foul fluid. Sign me up!"
So, the day before my colonoscopy comes and I begin my prep.
4:00 PM – I’ve had nothing but water all day, figuring the less in, the less out. I swallow the first 4 pills that I'm pretty sure are actually those little salt pellets you use in your water softener. I down my 8 ounces of water and wait, poised outside the bathroom door, ready to make a dash. I’m not sure how long it will take before I begin to experience the, um effects. Fearing it will happen instantaneously, I refuse to move from my post next to the toilet.
4:15PM – I feel fine and prepare to take my next 4 pills, followed by an additional 8 ounces of water. Waiting is scary. How long will it take to kick in, I wonder. Will I really be locked in the bathroom for the rest of the evening or had my friends and family exaggerated when they spoke of their experiences?
4:30PM – As I look at the clock and prepare to swallow my next four pills, I begin to feel some bubbling and gurgling in my tummy. For those of you who are new to the whole colonoscopy experience, take heed. That bubbling means – Get your butt on the toilet NOW!
4:35PM – I grab my book and head for the toilet. I can't help thinking of the Seinfeld episode when George takes a book into the bathroom with him, is forced to buy it, then the book is flagged so George can't return it. I wonder how many library books have undergone the colonoscopy prep. Then I think it’s probably better not to ponder that. (This was not a library book. I promise.) I decide this isn't too bad. I’ve had worse gastrointestinal viruses in my life.
4:45PM – I finish my business and wash my hands. As I take my next 4 pills, it hits me again. And by hits me, I mean, I not only do not have time to dry my hands, but I very nearly don't have time to pull down my pants. Oh. My. Gosh. I had no idea my body could hold that much. I see things I ate when I was five years old come out. All the partially digested pieces of grape Hubba Bubba I'd swallowed when the teacher caught me with gum in high school came out.
5:00PM – I manage to choke down pills 17-20 and pray for death wonder when the "effects" will let up. My legs are numb from sitting on the toilet. Great, I think, I'll get up and have to crawl out of the bathroom and heaven forbid the urge hit me again because there is no way I'll be able to get back to the toilet on these rubber legs. I wonder if my kids will be scarred for life if they find me lying in a pool of "effects" on the bathroom floor. I make a mental note to start saving for their therapy just in case.
7:00PM I leave the safety of the bathroom. It doesn't last long. But now I can manage to go 5 - 10 minutes between effects (effects sounds so much nicer than explosive diarrhea, doesn't it?).
8:00PM – At this point, my colon is clean enough to eat off, not that I recommend eating off colons or anything. However, those 20 salt pills didn't get the message that my colon is empty; they're still working. Since there's nothing left in my entire digestive system, my internal organs liquify and come running out instead. I've only consumed about half a gallon of water, but somehow, once in my body, that 64 ounces turned into 87 gallons.
8:30PM – You know how babies get diaper rash after having poop on their butts for a period of time? Yeah, well six and a half hours into my preparations, my butt actually burst into flames. It’s okay though, the veritable Niagara Falls that continued to flood from my body doused the fire. For the moment anyway.
9:00PM – I nearly vomit as I try to choke down the next 4 pills. Then I wonder what on earth these pills are going to do to me. I'm empty. I’m afraid if I take the final 8 pills, what’s left of my body will drain out my butt and nothing will remain of me except my earrings.
12:00AM – The hollow shell of skin that used to be me gives up, crawls to bed, and passes out, knowing I won’t need the bathroom for the next 5 weeks because there’s absolutely nothing left in me.
10:30AM – I arrive at the doctor’s office and take a seat in the waiting room.
11:00AM – I consider slapping the person sitting next to me, popping her gum, and talking loudly on her cell phone.
11:30AM – They finally call me back to a room and ask me a litany of questions.
“Is there any chance you’re pregnant?” I laugh so hard, I snort.
“Do you wear glasses or contacts?” No.
“Do you have dentures?” No.
“Do you have a hearing aid?” What?
“Do you have a hearing aid?” What?
“Do you have a hearing aid?” I decide this nurse doesn’t have a sense of humor and give up.
She has me change into a hospital gown so they can have easier access to violate me, and starts an IV.
12:00PM – I’m wheeled into the room where the magic happens. I look around for the buttcam and see some ominous-looking tubes. The anesthesiologist comes in and takes my blood pressure. It’s 612/438. “Are you nervous?” he asks. “No”, I reply, “I do this every couple weeks for fun.” The nurse tells me to turn onto my side (you know, for easy access), and the anesthesiologist injects his drugs into my IV. The last thing I remember is hearing Secrets by One Republic playing in the room, and thinking it’s a good thing they aren’t playing Baby Got Back.
12:30PM – A mean nurse is trying to get me to wake up. Apparently, she’s been trying for a while because she seems impatient and frustrated that I won’t open my eyes. I want to tell her to go away and let me sleep. I’m a single mom to six kids, for crying out loud. I need this rest! But I can’t wake up enough to form the words. I feel the need to pass gas and think to heck with being a lady. I'm afraid if I hold back I'll likely explode. At some point, the doctor came in and told me that although I have diverticulosis, it isn’t too bad and there are no polyps or any other scary things in there. Then he tells me I don't need to come back until I'm 50. I've got 8 years and 1 month to prepare for my next preparation.
So folks, the moral of this story is - just do it! Make the appointment and do it! Yeah, the preparation sucks, but look on the bright side, you'll lose a few pounds, have something to blog about, and will be able to put your mind at ease about colon cancer. Colorectal cancer is one of those things that's curable if it's caught in time. Suffering through stage 4 colorectal cancer is much, much worse than a colonoscopy. Oh yeah, and buy some diaper wipes and maybe even some Desitin for your prep. A butt on fire is not a happy butt.
