My doctor recommended a colonoscopy years ago when I turned 50. Procrastination, coupled with the “men don’t like going to the doctor” syndrome, kept me from doing it right away. Plus, good health had allowed me to avoid the doctor, for anything other than a checkup, up to that time. But, after three years of my wife insisting, I gave in and made an appointment. The process turned out to be simpler than expected, and completely painless.
On my first visit to the office, the doctor’s assistant explained the procedure. She told me they use office based anesthesia, and I wouldn’t feel a thing. After signing some papers, she handed me preparation instructions and a prescription.
Instead of the dreaded “colonoscopy cocktail,” the doctor prescribed my laxative in pill form. While they have the same effect as the liquid laxatives, the pills go down much easier. The cleanout went pretty well and involved only three or four trips to the lavatory. I slept well too.
The next morning my son drove me to the doctor’s office. I was nervous but tried not to let on. A nurse noticed my rapidly tapping foot and reminded me that they use office based anesthesia which would render me completely unconscious. She promised that my doctor had done hundreds of colonoscopies without a hitch. She confirmed I had a ride home, and then handed me another batch of papers to sign. After a short wait, the same nurse led me to a private room, gave me a hospital gown to wear, and told me to stay put. She returned after I changed, took my blood pressure and checked my heartbeat. A few minutes later, my doctor, the anesthesiologist, and a male nurse entered the room.
The moment of truth had arrived. The male nurse told me to lay flat on the gurney. The anesthesiologist firmly took my arm. She wrapped a rubber strap around it and inserted an IV into my vein. Next, she asked me to count backward from one hundred down to one. I remember getting to ninety-six and no more. I woke to find everyone except the male nurse gone.
He helped me get dressed and told me to stay seated for ten minutes while the anesthesia wore off. It seemed like only five minutes when he came back and led me to the cubicle where my initial interview took place. I signed one more paper and called my son for a lift home. The doctor’s assistant stated that “off the record,” everything looked fine.
In the end, the whole process, including the first visit, took less than two hours. As an unexpected side effect, I felt great for about two weeks afterward. I certainly understand why men shy away from this particular procedure, but thanks to anesthesia, I never knew it happened.