Tummy Troubles

TUMMY TROUBLES

I could see it coming a long time ago. I knew that the possibility existed and that it would become more and more likely as time went on and the situation didn't improve. So when my doctor recommended a certain course of action, I guess I had to agree with him.

Even if I didn't really want to.

Let's cut to the chase:

I'd been having some occasional stomach problems for a very long time, years and years, actually. Most of the time it was usually something minor – some light pains, some off-and-on nausea, some low-grade discomfort a lot of the time. My family doctor had tried a few remedies out on me but none of them had seemed to do the trick. Nexium and Prevacid were two of the medications that were tried and eliminated. Nothing really seemed to hit the spot. And the discomfort was becoming more and more prevalent. So on my latest trip to see the family doctor I asked if there was anything else he might recommend. He said that it was probably time to see a specialist and he set up an appointment for me with a gastroenterologist. I agreed with him and marked the appointment on my calendar.

Maybe I'd start making some progress now.

The “tummy” doctor was a nice guy. I don't think I've ever met a medical doctor who didn't strike me as a nice guy (or lady!) They must teach them that in medical school. He was very personable and we talked for a considerable period of time going over my history and my current complaints. He wrote a lot of it down, nodded a lot and gave me assurances that we'd definitely be able to figure out what the problem was and be able to do something about it.

That was very encouraging.

I was waiting for his next words, though, knowing what they would be. I held my breath, hoping I was wrong.

I winced a bit as the doctor then spoke them, “Let's schedule you for an endoscopy – I'll take a little look around in there and then we'll see where to go after that. OK?”

I grimaced and nodded my head. “Sure. Guess that's the best course.”

So another appointment was made for me, this time at the local hospital where the good doctor would “scope” my stomach and “see what he would see.” I marked this date in my calendar also. I eyed the circled date with a critical eye. January 6. Hmmm... Anything portentous happen on that date? Let's see... Ted Turner purchased the Atlanta Braves, “Wheel of Fortune” debuted on TV, the last “Milton Berle” show aired, “Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom” debuted, Elvis Presley's final appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show, Merrill Lynch was founded, New Mexico became the 47^th state, George Washington married Martha Custis. All on different years, of course, but nothing too momentous. Guess I'll have to add “I get an endoscope exam” to the list of major occurrences on that date now.

One thing you probably should know about me. When I get nervous, the first place that it affects is my stomach. Guess you could probably figure that one out without too much help. And I have a vivid imagination that likes to conjure up horrific scenarios. So as the day for the “procedure” approached and my anxiety increased, the condition of my tummy deteriorated. When the night before the appointment rolled around my stomach felt like Muhammad Ali had walloped me a good one. Sore, queasy and nauseous. Sounds like a law firm specializing in medical malpractice, doesn't it? My sleep that night was almost nonexistent, with tossing, turning and colorful, terrifying nightmares, most of which consisted of my choking on rubber tubes being jammed down my throat by maniacal, wild-eyed Frankenstein doctors.

The morning of January 6 was overcast, gray and dismal with light flurries in the pre-noon forecast. I showered and dressed, trying to keep my mind off my upcoming appointment and on something light and inconsequential. Of course that didn't work. My fickle brain would constantly return to the looming procedure. Try not to think about elephants for the next 30 seconds and you'll see how much control you have over your own brain. My eyes would flicker to the clock almost every minute, calculating how many of them I could hold on to before I had to leave for the hospital. The minutes evaporated like smoke in a hurricane. Too soon the moment arrived when I must leave. I grabbed my son, who was to accompany me, and we were off.

I checked into the hospital at the main reception area and was told to go down the hall to the the elevator, go to the second floor, turn right and go to the end of the hallway to the endoscopy section. Our local hospital has grown immense during my lifetime and it was very easy to get lost in. We got into the elevator, rode up one story, turned right and went to the end of that hallway, where we found ourself at an exit door. No endoscopy department, nothing. We then realized that the floor we'd started on was the GROUND floor, not the first. So the first floor up from it was the FIRST. You confused yet? I was. We retraced our steps, rode the elevator up one more floor, which was the second floor this time, and walked the long hallway to where my destiny awaited me.

As a side note, have you ever noticed the demeanor of the people who work in health services? They are, with few exceptions, upbeat and happy. They really do seem to want to help you. At least they give that impression when you see them. I guess a lot of that is due to the fact that its you that's the patient, not them. The people I met at the endoscopy department were shining examples of the type – almost to a fault. I and my aching stomach were assured at every step of the way that the upcoming procedure was “a piece of cake” and that I should relax. They told me that almost no one even remembers what goes on there and they even asked a patient in my room who had just come out of the same procedure if he'd remembered anything.

“Very little”, was the answer.

So I was put on a hospital bed, my vitals were taken, some sheets of permissions were signed and an IV was started in my right hand. That was where the “twilight sleep” medications would be injected into me at the appropriate time. They then left me to my own devices for a while. I chit-chatted with my son for a bit and then I realized something. This was going to be my third “-oscopy”. I had previously had a Colonoscopy where they examined my innards from the rear. Then I had had a Cystoscopy where they had examined my innards from the front. Now I was going to have an Endoscopy where they were going to examine my innards from the top. I had just about run out of orifices to probe and innards to examine! This was to be my third of the series!

What a lucky boy I was!

Very soon a nice nurse (where do they find these people?) arrived and wheeled me down the hallway to the procedure room. I waved at my son as I went by and said I'd see him in a bit. I figured the odds were somewhat better than 50/50.

The procedure room was filled with lots of medical equipment of various sorts, most of which I had no clue as to their purpose. I didn't notice any long rubber tubes hanging around, so it appeared that my nightmares weren't to be repeated in actuality. Thank goodness!

I was hooked up to a pulse/blood pressure machine and had one of those annoying oxygen tube things stuck up my nose. I was told to roll onto my right side. Somewhere about that time my smiling gastroenterologist entered the room, like a lead actor stepping upon the stage, and asked if I was ready. I considered my options for a moment then, accepting my fate, said yes. He squirted a strawberry/banana-flavored liquid into the back of my throat to numb my gag reflex then inserted a rubber block with a hole in the middle of it into my mouth. That was supposed to keep my jaw open during the procedure.

I thought to myself, “Oh boy! Here we go!”

One of the nurses then injected the “sleepy” juice into my IV and...

And...

I could remember the nurses and the doctor talking together while the procedure was going on. I could remember burping a lot. I assume air was pumped into my stomach to open things up and I was expelling some of it. But as to the procedure itself?

Nothing. Zippo. Nada. Zilch. The “sleepy” juice had done its trick.

The first thing I remember for sure after the procedure was being wheeled into the recovery room where I lay in a marvelously delicious state of being half-awake and half-asleep. No pain, no concerns, everything comfy and cozy.

Sometime later my bed was wheeled back to the room where I'd started and I was given some juice, some Lorna Doone cookies and reunited with my son. My throat was a tiny bit raw, but the “happy” juice was still buzzing around in my veins so I could have cared less.

It was over! My appointment with the unknown had been accomplished and I was, once again, a man free from any upcoming terrors. Hurrah!

At least until the next time.

The doctor came in a bit later, showed me pictures of my innards and explained what he'd done. There was nothing of real concern he'd said, but he'd taken a couple samples to have analyzed just to make sure. The IV was removed from my hand not long after that and I was free to go.

The ride home was uneventful. It was still a gray, snowy day outside, but inside this old body it was blue skies, sunshine and tropical breezes blowing. (I just love that medical-grade happy juice!)

I suppose if I had to draw any conclusions from this experience they would have to include:

Do what's right for your body even if it scares you silly.

Trust in the expertise of the specialists.

Heed the wisdom of the knowledgeable.

And don't be such a ninny worrying about the small stuff!

I'll try to remember all this the next time.

But probably not.