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Archive for the ‘Colonoscopy’ Category

J’evah notice that around this time of year, there is always some sum—bitch who gets pissed off about Christmas. I saw a house recently where the roof was being reshingled. They’d removed the old shingles and had covered the wood with a rubberized blanket. In beautiful block print lettering on this undercoat, the manufacturer, the builder, or someone had written “Put Christ Back in Christmas.”  It’s a beautiful sentiment; doesn’t mean a goddamned thing to those people who are hip-checking your ass out of the way so they can grab the last of the toy du jour; nor does it really mean a friggin’ thing to those who drive through the mall parking lot like they’re on the track at Daytona, to find the nearest exit so they can go home and wrap the gifts they’ve just bought with the money they don’t have to give to people who will only bitch about the gift being the wrong size, shape, color, or model and who, without considering the intent with which it was given, will only bitch about having to exchange it and the lines in which they’ll have to stand..whew!.

Right now I happen to be reading Bill O’Reilly’s latest book, Killing Jesus, so that really puts me in the holiday spirit. It appears that the Romans knew more ways to torture and kill Jews that anyone before them…and they worked at it. They didn’t even crucify you until they’d beaten your back and upper legs down to the bone; then they made you carry the cross piece to a pole in the ground where they promptly tied you to this cross piece, drove nails into your wrists; hoisted you up – how, I have no idea – broke your ankles and tied your legs to the pole and left you there to die. Ha, and you thought the Grinch was a rotten bastard! I’m beginning to think Jesus should have kept his mouth shut and sold one of the Apostles down the river!

In addition to learning what Jesus was in for at a time when we’re supposed to be celebrating his birth even though we know he wasn’t born in the twelfth month, it seems that the second week in December, at least for me, is designated as visit the doctors’ week. Every single year this seems to happen: Monday it was the ophthalmologist…who told me that my eyes were aging – “and that ain’t the only part,” I wanted to say. What the hell does that mean, your eyes are aging? Of course they are. There was a time when I wore trifocals. Then this very same doctor removed cataracts, put in some new lenses and gave me back my 20/20. Now he has the audacity to tell me my eyes are aging…and at Christmas time…screw you, you son-of-a-bitch; go ahead, make my day. Tuesday was an appointment with a gastroenterologist. This is a follow-up to my recent colonoscopy – if you need further clarification, I invite you to see Billy Connolly’s description on YouTube. This doctor’s news was better; my colon evidently is not aging, but it is becoming a bit wrinkled. “Don’t let it get any more wrinkled,” he informed me. Now what the hell can I do to get my colon unwrinkled? If anyone can answer that, I’ll trade colons with them. He did give me the good news that he doesn’t want to see me again for five years. Holy Jesus, by then my colon ought to look like a Hungarian Komonder or a friggin’ Puli. Wednesday was pulmonary day, the day I see Dino. This is a doctor of whom I think the world. He treats patients as people. He doesn’t see me as another patient with emphysema and C.O.P.D. He sees me as Dick, the late Joan’s husband; the guy who loves to cook and read. When Dino is teaching young doctors, he reminds them, “Never forget that behind that patient with the lung disease, or the cancer, or the this or that, is a person who still has the same needs and desires that you have. The patient is a person! Treat them like one.” So what does he have to say? “I’m putting you on a new medication to allow you to breathe better. You want a one-month supply or a three-month supply?” With winter coming on, I figure a three-month supply is not a bad idea. Then I get a call from the pharmacy.  It-is-impossible-to-imitate-the-Walmart-voice, but listen to this…”This is your Walmart pharmacy. A person in your household has….one…prescription ready to be picked up. The total cost will be three hundred forty-seven dollars and four cents.”

“X-fucking-scuse me? Are you shitting me?” I say as I close my phone. “This is the season of giving, not of taking. You couldn’t even give me the goddamned four cent discount…where the hell does the four cents come from?” Juli was just staring at me. Finally, without breaking into a grin, she asks, “Walmart?” All I can do is glare until we both begin laughing out loud at my tirade against a recorded voice. I just love these miracle drugs…and the doctors who think nothing of prescribing them.

Today is Thursday. We went to Walmart to buy a few things and to pick up my prescription. Linda, one of the pharmacy assistants, just looked at me as I approached the counter. The pharmacist behind the counter stopped what she was doing and peeked out from behind her computer screen.

Linda: “Hi, er, hi, Dick…ah…um…are you sure you want to pick up the three-months worth of this?”

Pharmacist – from behind her computer screen, with exceedingly large smirk: “You can get the one-month supply if you want.”

Linda: “You..ah…um…you know this is over three hundred dollars, right?”

Me : “Three hundred, forty-seven dollars…and four cents…that about right?”

Linda: “Yeah?”

Me: (sotto voce so only Linda can hear) “Ring the fucking thing up, Linda!” Linda cracks up to the point where it appears she may lose bladder control. In as soft a voice as I had used, she replies…”fucking’ A!” and proceeds to abuse my debit card for the entire amount…chuckling! I’m certain she told the pharmacist of our exchange but frankly, I don’t give a damn. Ring your bell just as much as you want Mr. Salvation Army man with your big red kettle and your “Ho-ho-ho;” You won’t get as much this year as you did last…sorry about that…blame my freakin’ doctor.

Tomorrow is Friday. I have no doctors’ appointments. I have neither plans to visit Walmart nor any other store. My car is fully gassed, and I am going, very early, to the gym. I will then come home, change back into my pajamas, hide my wallet under my pillow, and sleep the day, arising only to take my pills and my new – three hundred forty seven dollar and four cents – prescription.

Merry Christmas?

Bah…Humbug!

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[When last we left out intrepid senior citizen, he was becoming well acquainted with the ‘Johnny House,’ doing what all colonoscopy preppers do in the porcelain cloakroom.]

Sunday has come and gone. After a restless night’s sleep, I arise early to begin the task of consuming a half gallon of the lemony oil we call ‘go lightly,’ a charming name for a viscous and vicious liquid that, as has been said before, must be consumed by 9:30 am.

To describe this right of preparation in detail would definitely be TMI, so we will skip all of the ugliness…use your freakin’ imagination!

Midway through the morning, Juli has an epiphany. Instead of driving to the hospital, we should take a taxi. Following a discussion of the economics of such a move, a few bouts of dizziness, and more trips to the ‘Necessarium,’ I am finally convinced that this is probably the better move for this afternoon’s adventure.

For those of you living in the Norwood area, I heartily endorse Family Taxi. On time, reasonable prices, a cab that was spotless…and I intended to keep it that way…and a ‘good guy’ driver who was a wonderful conversationalist at a time when I really needed some friendly chatter…well, I need something; let’s just say that we got along.

It’s wonderful to sit in the passenger seat of a car and see all of the things you miss when you’re driving. Truly, it’s an eye-opening spectacle; the tree colors are more vivid; other drivers appear to know what they’re doing – we hardly came close to anyone, but then I couldn’t see what damage we might have left in our wake. The remarkable thing was that we pulled up to the hospital surgical center three and a half minutes before we actually left; I didn’t realize we were moving that quickly although the one time I looked at the speedometer it was registering somewhere between 85 and 90. As I say, It was all pretty much a blur; perhaps the trees were going by so quickly the colors lingered; perhaps the other drivers were just making way as we approached at warp speed.

After completing some paperwork, my nurse, Mary Ann, who was a character, issued a four-word directive: “Take it all off!” Hospital johnnies are stored in freezers – you should know that in case you are planning a trip to your local medical facility. Blankets, however, which are available seconds after you don the arctic wear, are kept in a 212 degree oven. I’m not certain why this practice is allowed. There has to be some deep psychological reason that hospitals do this…freezer-broiler; freezer-broiler… it must make sense to someone.

Once I was comfortably situated on the trolley, came time for the IV.  At the end of a long hose attached to a bag of some kind of liquid; I kid…this was saline, the nurse attempts to find a vein of sufficient size into which she can stick a hollow harpoon. As a lad of 40, my veins were like sewer pipes, huge and just popping out beneath the skin. Nurses loved them for their “poppiness” and availability…just one little tap and veins would jump, almost shouting, “Stick me; stick me.” At nearly 80, the veins (along with a number of other bodily items) have gone into retirement. Today, they timidly weep, “Not me; not me,” and they’ve been suck enough that I can understand their pleas. Suffice it to say, the first stick, puncture, stab, or whatever you wish to call it, did not work. As much and as quickly as Mary Ann wriggled that needle under my skin, my old veins were quicker. I don’t know whether they’re just getting back at me for having them stuck so often in my youth – giving five gallons of blood, you idiot; nothing else – or perhaps they’re just plain tired. After twisting and turning the needle for about five hours – it was probably less than 15 seconds but I’m a coward about such things – Mary Ann called an IV nurse who arrived, found a vein and started the IV without any pain or problem.

While all of this was going on, the gastroenterologist came in, dressed in his usual black turtleneck and sport coat, appearing as if he was off for a trip to the museum. “Hey, how’re you doing?” he asked and before I could say, “Shitless,” he was pulling the curtain aside and leaving. I kid about him, but he is a highly respected professional and a very funny man who has the ability to put patients at ease in what otherwise might be viewed as an embarrassing situation.

Looking down at the IV after the doctor’s quick visit, I noticed that there were four little ports where needles could be inserted. Mary Ann was fussing with one of the ports and after a moment, asked, “Sleepy yet?” I responded – and this I remember – “Did you put something in that port?” She replied with a grin, “Yes, I did,” and she drew that last word out so that it sounded like “diii-iiid.”

Waking up in the recovery room with absolutely no memory of what has taken place over the last hour or so is just a bit mind-boggling and terrifying. “Hi, I’m Pat, your recovery room nurse; can I get you anything?” was said about three inches from my face. Had I been forty years younger and single, I might have made an unintelligent comment; however, seeing that I’m 79, have just had my empty colon prodded, poked, and snipped, I asked for graham crackers. It’s a poor substitute for what briefly flashed across the frontal lobe, which by the way was now laughing hysterically at my presumed abilities, but graham crackers would have to do.

Half an hour in the recovery room appeared to be all that was allowed. I want you to know, however, that in that half hour, I damn near emptied their supply of graham crackers which, as Pat reminded me, probably tasted like filet mignon after my fast…dammit, she was right.

Once more, Captain Kirk was there to drive us home. Once more, the foliage was fantastic, and once more, cars just seemed to disappear before us. This time I really did not dare to look behind us. Safe and sound – as much sound as possible – we arrived at our door. The Domino’s pizza arrived about five minutes after we did…damn, that Juli is good; she’d ordered from the hospital or the cab…nah, had to be the hospital…our cab was traveling at warp nine!

Next time your doctor says, “You probably should have a colonoscopy,” don’t run for the hills; just think that you can call Family Taxi and learn what the time travel is truly like; you can lay on your side in a hospital johnnie, freezing your ass off; you can be enveloped in a blanket that will heat up the johnnie and burn your butt; you can get stabbed, probed, and offered graham crackers…but remember, one slice of that hot pizza will make the whole damned thing worthwhile!  

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This really sucked! The day and my mood were running along parallel tracks. As for the day, the temperature had dropped to somewhere in the low to mid-thirties from a high of about seventy the day before – that sucked – and the clouds were so low it looked like you could hit them with a rock. Drizzle interspersed with a few snowflakes reminded me that the better days of this year were far behind. If you can translate all of that into my mood, you might just understand that this wasn’t going to be one of the better days of my life. Even after turning the clocks back – daylight savings time was over; another indication of how dark things were becoming – I still slept an hour later than usual. Maybe I just didn’t want to face the prospect of apple juice for breakfast, lunch, and dinner…not to overwork the word, but that also sucked.

Tomorrow is colonoscopy day…unplanned colonoscopy day. At my age you gotta figure that a few things are going to get somewhat fucked up with your body but when you haven’t had a bowel movement in over a month and the emergency room doc freely admits that you’re FOS, you just know that you’re in for a bad time to come a calling over the next week or so. In a telephone call the night before, my own doctor had suggested that I might want to get to the emergency room for an x-ray to see what was going on in my gut; I’d already told him that I hadn’t shat – is that really a word – in a month, but that just seemed to sail over his head; either that, or he wasn’t surprised that my blue eyes now had a brownish tint…who knows?

I went to the ER the next morning after my workout at the gym – a weak workout because of the way I felt – arriving just at shift change. Do you have any clue what happens at shift change in an emergency room? The doctors, nurses, and techs who have been there since the evening before want nothing more than to haul ass to the warmth of their beds, and the crew coming on wants nothing more than to hope that all of the ER beds are empty and remain that way. Thus, the former attempt to procrastinate bringing in a new patient for fear of getting stuck in the ER beyond their time, and the latter would like to have their ‘cuppa’ before they have to begin the day’s work. I’m kidding, of course, but I really did have to wait for about half an hour before I was taken to an ER bed.

First to my bed was a don’t-talk-to-me-I’m-not-awake-yet-nurse. She was nice enough I guess, yet largely lacking in a sense of humor. She never saw my eyes – so she didn’t notice the brown tint – because her face was glued to the clipboard she held while asking inane questions. She was followed by a fourth year medical student who asked the same questions – I guess they didn’t know one another – but with a sparkle in her blue eyes. Next came the doctor who, thankfully, was one I had known for ten years. We talked about his children, now 8, 6, and 3, and about my situation. He sent me for an x-ray that showed nothing of consequence and then he told me to check with a gastroenterologist – GI, not to be confused with a soldier by the same initials – as soon as possible. I guess I didn’t expect a whole hell of a lot more, but his ‘diagnosis’ certainly didn’t help my mood to any positive degree.

A visit to the gastroenterologist is always an experience. People in the waiting room avoid looking at one another because there’s something about having a problem with your asshole and upwards that creates a certain amount of embarrassment or tension or something. Thankfully, I was the only one in the waiting room when I walked in. The child behind the counter – she has two degrees and is working on a third – looked to be about ten years old, took me into an examining room and began asking the normal questions that one would be asked when they are FOS – you haven’t figured that one yet? It means full of shit, and surely, I am – and she was talking about these things as though she was asking about the weather. It’s difficult for older people to talk about these things with children whom they do not know and who appear so blasé about the whole thing. I was just thankful she didn’t tell me to drop my drawers while she stuck a finger up my butt…ouch…yuck…holy crap! “The doctor will be in in a minute,” she told me, rousing me from my horrific thoughts. Whew, just the memory of it leaves me weak.

The doctor is Swiss; he’s a wonderful man…funny, brilliant, and completely at ease with everyone. What the hell, he sees more assholes in a week than any of us do in our lifetime. He explained to me that my symptoms warranted an immediate colonoscopy. The thing is that you don’t walk into a doctor’s office and just have a colonoscopy. This is a process that requires preparation. The doctor indicated that the procedure would take place on Monday. He explained this as I was sitting in his office on Saturday. Guess what this means, sports fans? Tomorrow will be prep day; today in this case since this is when I’m at the computer. No food all day and at noon, the preparation will begin; twenty plus minutes ago since it is now 12:22, and I am already feeling the effects of having drunk ten ounces of citrate of magnesia.

Let me tell you about citrate of magnesia. This is not your normal Exlex, Dulcolax, Miralex, or any other ‘lax’ which you may have taken. If you can picture swallowing a very large fire cracker to break the dam, while having a cherry bomb explode just inside your butt, you have some sense of citrate of magnesia. It is a nuclear weapon as compared to a BB gun….and you have to drink thirty ounces of this stuff [I was going to say “shit” but that would be overkill]. In addition, you should know that this stuff is not your gentle, stool softening agent that works overnight. Oh, no…I’m back at the computer now having just launched the first of many citrate of magnesia bombs into the bottom of the porcelain war god. I told you this stuff was fast.

The frequent trips to the toilet will continue throughout the afternoon and evening. Eventually, I will crawl into bed, wearing Depends and praying that being in a horizontal position will prevent any accidents. I know, however, having been down this road before, that sleep will not come easy. Tomorrow morning – the procedure is scheduled for 1:30 pm – I will further prep by drinking have a gallon of slime known in the trade as “Go-lightly.” What a horrible fucking name! And I must do this before 9:30…aaarrrggghhh!

End of part I…

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Here comes one of those blogs that you read and go, “Ugh, I cannot believe I read the whole thing!” But you will…c’mon, you know you will. It’s raunchy without sex. It’s the dark underbelly of life without guns, knives, succinylcholine, or some other exotic poison, and without car chases and gun fights in dark alleys.

This story begins in a nearly deserted parking garage on a late Saturday morning – better it should be a dark and stormy night but what the hell, this is all true. Naturally, yours truly has to be the protagonist in this story, driving my ’99 four-door, silver gray Camry (isn’t that a great description?) into a vacant spot next to the third floor of my destination. Taking the elevator to the fifth floor, I arrived at office of “Big Al.” I rather doubt that anyone in their right mind would ever call him that; I think he’s probably around five feet six inches tall…but he is an intimidating presence, particularly when he’s dressed all in black as he was this day. I won’t tell you his real name. I could, but then he’d kill me…not, “have to,” mind you; he just would.

“Big Al” is a gastroenterologist. Go ahead; say it three times fast and then fart! For those of you unfamiliar with the term, it’s supposed to cover problems from the mouth to the butt, but as I understand it, more often than not, it’s bowels to balls…or just above. I cannot imagine what “Big Al” is like at a cocktail party but he probably has a bunch of shitty jokes at the expense of others…”Now that’s a colon!” Naw, I’m just kidding; he’s a true professional.

Yes, as you have by now guessed, I have a bowel problem and was venturing into this new world of actually seeing a doctor in his office on a Saturday afternoon. “It happens about once a month,” his secretary slash wife told me. “He just gets so backed up (oh, what a poor choice of words for me to be hearing) that we just come in to see patients he can’t see any other time.” The horrible part of this whole visit was that everyone in the office looked like they were on their last legs. One man was on a walker with a canister of oxygen and two people to help him; another needed assistance to get up and walk slowly into the office. I was beginning to feel like maybe I should stop at the undertaker on the way home and start making arrangements!

He advised me to take a stronger laxative and to see him Monday for a “sigmoidoscopy.”  That one gotcha buffaloed? Well, you know what a colonoscopy is, dontcha? That’s the thing Katie Couric had done on TV several years ago. We’ll talk more about it later, but this isn’t it. Putting it politely, “You don’t have to be as well prepared for the sigmoidoscopy,” and that’s being really, really nice about it.

I left the hospital feeling much better about my problem. “Big Al” was going to get to the bottom of things – oh, I do this to myself, and then feel so stupid! The single thing that I had forgotten about was that when one visits a hospital or medical environment, one must learn never to breathe. It takes training, but you must never, ever breathe in this environment. You must learn to speak without breathing; stay seated for long periods of time without breathing, and exhale only after you are a minimum of one mile from the medical area. “Why is this?” you ask. Germs…germs, germs, germs. Somewhere, between parking the car, entering the building, riding the elevator both up and down, and sitting in the doctor’s office, I inhaled…extremely bad move on my part…extremely bad!

Sunday morning, I awoke with a horrendous cough, a nagging headache, a nose that could have given Niagara Falls a run for its money and, worst of all, bowels that were still in gridlock. I hadn’t felt this rotten in years – actually, Juli informed me it was last year and went on to say that my memory was shot to hell. By noon, my beloved was also feeling just as badly as I and thanking me profusely for bringing a little virus into our lives.

By three o’clock in the afternoon, in addition to having the head cold from hell, the medicine I was taking for my ‘other’ problem decided it was time to go to work. There is no other way to describe it than to say that Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, were the shittiest days of my life! Every time I coughed, the brain sent a message to the other end….”let it fly, baby; we’ve got him on the run.” Sometimes my brain can just be downright cruel. Thank God for Dylsum. It’s a cough syrup that really works. I was also thankful that we’d had the foresight to have Depends in the house….no, not the peach color for women; just the standard gray for men. We’re such whoozzes, we don’t deserve color!

Now that I’m feeling better (until the next cough), I figured to let you know what’s been happening. After all, a blog is part of the social network…although, I’m not really feeling all that social. Oh, well, the good news is that gridlock seems to have broken – yes, I knew you’d want to be kept informed – and the head cold is slowly departing. Unfortunately, “Big Al” and I are still going to meet next Friday so he can stick his flexible sigmoidscope where da sun don’t shine. I swear, if I look over my shoulder and see him smoking a cigarette and smiling, he’s gonna get hurt!

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Colonoscopy anyone?

            Life is just filled with peculiarities and oddities. Some are humorous many are not. For example, if Joan, my late wife, and I had been married on New Year’s Eve – her other choice – rather than on the Fourth of July, then we wouldn’t have had our own brand of ‘explosions’ and ‘fireworks’ on the second and third, the days before my second colonoscopy.

            Now, some of you may feel that what I have just said might be classified as “over sharing,” of information – TMI, as it’s familiarly known – and you might well be right. However, and understand me very clearly on this, unless one makes light of this test for colorectal cancer, one has the distinct chance of dying, and there is nothing funny about that. According to the American Cancer Society (ACS), there will be approximately 106,700 new cases of colon cancer and 42,000 cases of rectal cancer in 2006 in the United States. Together, they will account for over 55,000 deaths. That’s a great many deaths, and the terrible thing is that many of them could have been prevented.

            The ACS says that, “The death rate from colorectal cancer has been going down for the past 15 years. One reason is that there are fewer cases. Thanks to colorectal cancer screening, polyps can be found and removed before they turn into cancer. And colorectal cancer can also be found earlier when it is easier to cure. Treatments have improved as well.” A fellow gym rat was diagnosed last year with colon cancer; they caught it early. It was treated with ‘radiation seeding.’ They implanted these seeds in his colon and it killed the cancer. He was back at the gym in about nine weeks. It was the same with a college president with whom I used to work; early detection led to early cure. Unfortunately, there are those who procrastinate, like the neighbor of a friend in Medfield. He had a history of colorectal cancer in his family, but he put off and put off the colonoscopy. Then he began to lose weight. For him it was too late; dead at 42, leaving a wife and three kids. Not at all funny.

            So now that I’ve scared the living daylights out of you, let’s talk about this colonoscopy test. If you’re really modest or happen to be a real gambler, you can stop reading right here, because you’re not going to like what comes next. If you’re a woman who’s had a PAP test or mammogram or a man who’s been given a rectal exam as part of your annual physical, read on, because nothing I’m about to say will shock you.

            The worst part of a colonoscopy test is the preparation. It’s a prep that you do at home. You have to take a medication, pill or liquid that will, to put it politely, “clean you out…completely.” It’s rather like a visit from rotorooter; ah, but there I go, over sharing again. It’s a day and a half of being pleasantly uncomfortable. I use that word, “pleasantly,” because you have to keep the big picture in mind, and that big picture is that you are taking steps to ensure your continued stay above the ground.

            The day of your exam will be like a day spent before any hospital visit…paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. If you’re concerned about being near a ‘facility,’ don’t worry; the urge to run will have already passed. You’ll be given a ‘johnny’ – can someone please tell me why the hell they call them that – made comfortable in a pre-testing bed, and an IV started to begin to replace some of the fluids you’ve lost. Later, you’re wheeled into the testing room. The doctor may come in and ask a few questions – they’re minor, and ask you to sign a consent form. By now, your anxiety level is such that you’ll sign anything, just to get this damned thing over with. However, a day later, you’ll look back and wonder just what made you so anxious. I happened to ask the nurse what she’d be using for a sedative. “Versed,” she told me. This seems to be the anesthetic of choice these days…and it’s wonderful! You have no memory of what happened and you have no side effects from the drug…well, other than the fact that you’re a bit loopy for a few hours, but that’s also fun.

            “You will tell me when you administer the Versed,” I inquired. She just smiled and said, “Goodnight, Dick.”  Next thing I knew, I was back in the recovery room and being asked if I’d had a nice nap. Less than an hour later, with eight graham crackers and two glasses of cranberry juice consumed, I was on my way home. Because of the drug, of course, I wasn’t allowed to drive. That was fine; our oldest drove me home, so I kept my eyes closed anyway – she’s one of those who drives, drinks coffee, talks on her cell phone, applies makeup, reads the newspaper, and makes a to do list simultaneously. It’s better if you keep your eyes closed.

            I was at the gym the following day. That’s the simplicity of a colonoscopy. Is it embarrassing for some people to talk about this test? Absolutely. Older people, in particular, seem very concerned with propriety and modesty and taboo topics such as bowel movements and urinary problems. Even some young people prefer to be hush-hush about it and pretend these things don’t exist. Perhaps these will be some of this year’s 55,000; perhaps not. Why take the chance when this test just might save your life.

            At the opposite end of the hush-hush spectrum is one friend who is a professional photographer. He asked the doctor if he could have his colon photographed as the test was taking place. “Certainly,” he was told. Dan now has an eight-inch square of four pictures of his colon. He had it framed and it sits proudly on his desk. I won’t tell you how he uses that framed photograph when abusive or uncooperative clients come into his office. Use your imagination. By the way, the photography is excellent.

            If just one person reads this column and is convinced to have a colonoscopy or can convince his or her loved ones to do it, this will have been worthwhile. Please folks, it’s easy and it just might save your life or the life of someone you love.

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