Cru Jones Society

 

Today is part two of our three-part series “How It Feels.” Lee S. Hart tackles the uncomfortable topic of ulcerative colitis. Many of you have no idea how this feels, and after reading this, we’d be willing to bet, most of you will be thanking your lucky stars that you haven’t.

Most medical experts agree that men should have a colonoscopy around age 40, just so the doctor can have a look around in there and make sure everything is ok. I had my first one a whole 17 years early at age 23, and needless to say, I wish I could have waited. They did not find cancer, and regardless of what you may think, my head was not up there either. What the doctor did find was Ulcerative Colitis. It’s not cancer, but still, FML.

Things were going pretty well as the end of the summer approached in 2006 until I started having awful stomach cramps and found myself using the bathroom more often than I have in the past. To make this clear and not totally disgusting, ulcerative colitis affects the colon. So as the frequency of the bathroom usage increased, I found…let’s say differences. The differences were enough to worry me – more unnerving than say an unpleasant trip to the commode after a night of heavy drinking – so I made an appointment to see a doctor.

I went to a doctor on Monday. He had a few ideas and needed to run some tests to check out the ideas. One test involved a stool sample. I was sent home to create this sample then take it to the testing lab. Like other samples you may be more familiar with, this one had to be done in a cup. This is just as horrifying an experience as you’re picturing. I filled the cup, washed my hands liked I suffered from OCD, and had to take a drive to the lab. I don’t know if you have ever had to drive with one of your own turds riding shotgun, but it’s damned uncomfortable. I wanted nothing more than to be at the lab and have that demon cup out of my car.

The lab wouldn’t have my results for at least a day or two. Meanwhile the thoughts and ideas of what could be wrong with me kicked up the stress which in turn caused more problems in my digestive tract. I started to lose my appetite, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, as I could have afforded to lose a few pounds. And on top of that, the doctor put me on the B.R.A.T. diet. I was allowed to eat bananas, rice (plain), apple sauce or toast (dry). So it really didn’t matter if I had an appetite or not. Seriously dry toast? What the fuck is that? I felt like Craig and Smokey trying to make Kool Aid with no sugar.

I still attempted to go to work because I had bills that needed to be paid, and now I had some doctor bills that would be coming in as well. I attempted to take a shower and go to work. And as if things weren’t going poorly enough, this particular shower would result in my first ever panic attack. My small, standing-room-only shower, in my most vulnerable nakedness was not the most ideal place for a panic attack. I ended that pretty damned fast, wrapped a towel around myself and ran outside for fresh air. I was scared, naked, and dripping, but collected myself and went to work anyway, which turned out to be an exercise in futility as I spent most of my shift running to the bathroom. Finally, after one to many trips to vomit, my boss made me go home. Once at home I laid in bed, with my dry toast, and attempted to watch television. I took so many trips to the bathroom that I don’t think I saw the ending to a single show I watched.

The next day, Wednesday, the doctor called and asked me to come into his office. Once there he informed me that the lab results showed nothing, but that didn’t help me as the bathroom was quickly becoming my second home. To make matters worse my vomiting had increased. I couldn’t keep anything in me at all. The doctor’s next idea was that I may have ulcerative colitis, something I had never heard of. Unfortunately he had to send me to a specialist, a gastroenterologist, who couldn’t see me until Friday. So another day and a half of agony I would spend wallowing in my bed and bathroom.

In the time between doctor visits, I spent my nights awake literally praying for death. I was in pain, I was at a complete loss to what was going on and I wanted nothing more for it to stop, even if that meant it killed me. My one saving grace through these times was my friend Justine. I received a phone call or text message from her on a daily basis asking me how I was, and telling me I was going to get past it and just being an all around great friend. I truly believe these messages helped me get through and for those I am forever grateful to have such a friend. Thank you, Justine.

After another long night of suffering, Friday morning finally came. I got up and prepared myself the best I could. This meant taking a half assed shower as I still felt anxious about being in there, and putting on a real pair of pants there were not too large to stay up, even with the help of a belt. Since I couldn’t keep in anything I ate I had basically stopped eating and as a result lost 18 pounds and too many inches to count. This would have been fine, but I lost those pounds in 5 days. I was anorexic and bulimic, and it sucked. I got dizzy walking up 12 stairs at a normal pace. Believe me ladies, there is a thing as too skinny, don’t do this to yourself; you’re great the way you are.

I grabbed a bottle of water and headed out to drive myself to the specialist. Driving myself there would prove to be a bad idea. About halfway there I had to pull over and vomit. This reassured me that shit was totally fucked because all I was vomiting was water. There was no food, no booze, no nothing. Just water. T’was the clearest vomit I have ever spewed, and the least foul tasting, so that’s good. I guess. I toweled off and continued forth.

I finally got to see the doctor. He prodded me and asked me questions. I described my irregular stool, frequent bathroom trips, and inability to keep any food or beverage in. He, like the last doctor, thought it may be colitis. But unlike the last doctor, this guy had the authority (which I respected) to decide I needed a colonoscopy. What choice did I have but to agree? Looking back I realized I essentially said, “I willfully volunteer for you to anally violate me.”

I sat there full of the worry that comes with the knowing your first colonoscopy was 24 hours away when the nurse came and gave me instructions to my colonoscopy pre-game. No eating after 1pm, only apple juice, water or lemon Gatorade, don’t expose them to sunlight or get them wet.

Wait, those last two were instructions for something else.

She handed me 3 sheets; one with a prescription, one with further instructions for the prescription, and one for a blood test I had to go do immediately; then she sent me to do the blood test.

I’ve done many a blood test before, even gave plasma on a regular basis for awhile. Usually it’s not a big deal. Sit down, stab a needle in the arm, pull the plunger, tape it up and go. It didn’t go that smoothly this time.

The phlebotomist began to search for the vein, but was unable to find one. She called in her supervisor for assistance. After stabbing my right arm to no avail, they tried my left arm and were able to find one. At that point the lack of nourishment began to catch up to me. I began to see black and white swirl type designs in my eyes, like those that appear when you press into your closed eyes with your fingers a little too hard. I tried to speak and tell them something wasn’t right but I couldn’t. I don’t know what was stopping me, but I could not form the words and speak them. The next thing I knew I was revived and a third phlebotomist stood around me and they all asked if I was ok. I had passed out from getting blood drawn. I have never actually passed out before and it was a weird and frightening experience.

They moved me to a bed and had me lie down. They gave me a juice box and I felt like I was in the clinic in elementary school. They wouldn’t let me drive home, which was probably for the best, and I had to call my roommate to come and pick me up. Just like a night of drinking, only without the fun alcohol part.

After a trip to the pharmacy to buy laxatives and a powder that would turn into a drink that was worst than Jack and Coke and Crown (Which was a terrible idea, in retrospect. Don’t mix your liquors, kids) I was at home and nervously waited for four o’clock which was when I had to take the laxatives and add water to the powder and chill it in the fridge until five. Starting at five, I was to drink 8 oz of this drink, I keep calling it a drink but maybe I should just label it as a liquid, every 15 minutes until it was gone. This was in a gallon jug, and it tasted the way I would imagine water to taste if it could go bad the way milk does. This was designed to flush my intestinal track so the doc could have a clear look up in there.

After thirty minutes I could feel the effects of this liquid and laxative cocktail. My already frequent bathroom trips increased in number. I tried watching television while I consumed this liquid awfulness (seriously I would have preferred crab juice mixed with Mountain Dew to this stuff) and I still never saw an ending to any show that was on that night.

I can’t believe I even tried to go to sleep that night. Between the anxiety of a looming medical procedure and the rumbly in my tumbly that was still happening thanks to the unhappy hour I took part in, sleep was nothing more than an immigrant’s dream.

Morning finally arrived and my mom came to take me to the doctor as they required someone there to take me home because I’d probably still be a bit loopy from the anesthetic, and my car was still there. And who better to have around after a medical procedure than dear old mom?

I changed into the wonderfully revealing hospital gown and climbed into the bed. As I waited for the nurse I got to see many post-colonoscopy vets roll past me. When they do colonoscopies they make you lay on your left side, and everyone who was wheeled passed faced me, their eyes stilled glazed over and that only increased my nervousness. This became obvious when the nurse came to take my heart rate, which was high. I don’t think the nurse could really blame me though, I mean they were about to knock me out and stick something up my butt.

I calmed down a little and she was able to administer the anesthetic. I rolled onto my left and they wheeled me to the procedure room. I could feel the anesthetic start to kick in. I felt like the way I do when I’ve been drinking steadily and decided I needed to stop, but I still want to be a part of what was going on, so I just sit and observe everyone in my hazy state. I see them and know they are saying things but I can’t decipher what’s really going on. It felt like that, then it got physically uncomfortable. The anesthetic was enough that it wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t pleasant either. Fortunately they didn’t have to go too deep to see the ulcerative colitis inflammation. So they pulled out and sent me back to my recovery area.

As I came to, the doctor arrived to inform me that ulcerative colitis was the cause of the discomfort I was feeling before the colonoscopy. He then told me that there was no cure, short of major surgery that would involve removing my colon all together. I’m no doctor or anything, but I was pretty sure I needed my colon. He did tell me that UC could be kept under control with drugs, and gave me a prescription.

Now that I knew what was wrong with me a lot of the stress and anxiety I felt disappeared, I was hungry and I craved pepperoni pizza from Pizza Hut. So my mom and I got one and it was awesome! Food never tasted so good.

For the next month, and then some, I took 20 pills a day. I had 12 in the morning, four in the afternoon, and four more before bed. Four of the pills I had to take were steroids. I hated those the most. While they took the inflammation down to a level the other drugs could manage, I could feel them doing a number on the rest of my body. My legs and feet swelled and my muscles just felt weird. I stopped those ones as soon as I could and before they really fucked up my body. But it wasn’t soon enough and I was included in the Mitchell Report.

Some of the other pills I took were called Asacol. These are designed to treat many stomach and digestive track ailments. These I still take and will probably always have to take, but I have been able to reduce the amount from 12 a day to just 4 in the morning. The most awful thing about these pills is with my old crappy insurance, another reason why working retail sucked, these pills came to more than a dollar a pill. So it was costing me almost 13 dollars a day just to take them. The best part about the pills, aside from keeping the UC under control, is they are flavorless so I can wash them down with anything. This impressed Dagger when I chased them with whiskey one morning in Vegas.

One last exciting bonus to living with UC is I am now at a higher risk for colon cancer. My doctor recommends I have a colonoscopy every ten years. So that means I will have my second one before most of our readers have their first. Jackpot!

That was truly an awful experience and I know this may sound cliché but living through it really gave me a more optimistic and better outlook on life. Like Butters’ beautiful sadness, experiencing the bad makes the good that much better. I’m not happy I have to take pills daily like an old man, and like Beavis I poop too much, but at least I’m still alive. And that feels great.

See ya at the apothecary….

lee.s.hart@crujonessociety.com