Daddy Pays a Visit To “the Butt Doctor”

I have been putting off my first colonoscopy for something like three and a half years now—ever since my friend Jason died of colon cancer, just before the lockdowns. I am prone to health anxiety, and the fear of a scary outcome somehow outweighed the constant sense of dread I lived with during that delay. I’ve had a colonoscopy prep kit stuffed in my sock drawer for over a year, left unopened and unexamined, taunting me every morning as I got dressed.

Colon cancer, the doctor told me this morning, grows slowly, and when caught early is usually treatable. This was news to me; nobody had ever talked to me about what colon cancer is or how it works. Probably just as well, because it would have likely led me to delay my procedure even longer than I already had.

At Jason’s memorial, his best friend urged everybody in the audience to get a colonoscopy. It was easy, he said, and he was glad he did it. I took note of it—he seemed healthy, and it was an outpatient procedure that might save my life. I decided to ask my doctor about it during my upcoming visit.

“You’re too young,” he said. “The CDC recommends waiting until you’re fifty. If you want, I can order it, but that’s not what we recommend today.” He was the doctor. I decided to wait.

COVID happened. Hospitals were flooded with patients, and all elective procedures were cancelled. I had bigger things to worry about. I waited.

A few months later, Chadwick Boseman died of colon cancer. He was only 43. I fell into an anxious haze. Unable to fathom going into a hospital for a colonoscopy (and keeping in mind that colonoscopies remained elective), I decided, again, to wait.

In the middle of 2021, the CDC changed their guidelines for colonoscopies, ordering that they should be conducted at age 45 rather than 50. I was no longer three years early; I was two years late. I called my doctor, who agreed that I was two years late and prescribed a colonoscopy. This was during the Delta wave, so I had to wait.

For a year, I did nothing, as wave after wave of COVID passed through New York and wave after wave of anxiety washed over me. I began to fear the worst, imagining Kina growing up without me there, unaware of how my gut might be conspiring against me. In the sock drawer, the box. In my head, the most distressing visions, as I waited.

So I got a therapist. He convinced me to look at the box, to read the instructions. I looked up the number for the endoscopy office. I read about the laxative prep. We talked about my fears, my health, my history. I approached a decision, inch by inch.

Then, one of my coworkers got a colonoscopy. The news wasn’t good. He got surgery, recovered, told me about it. My stomach dropped out of my body.

I made a phone call. The person who answered was nice. She understood that this was scary and helped me make an appointment, three weeks off. I booked a hotel room, because I share a single bathroom with a five-year-old.

The prep was fine. I ate only liquids for two days. I watched a lot of TV. I drank consommé from Pastrami Queen and ate popsicles. Other things happened; nothing bad.

The next morning, I walked two blocks west to Mount Sinai and was guided through the entire procedure by their amazing staff. I signed some papers. I put on a gown. They put in an IV. They wheeled me around. I took a nap.

Then I was awake. The doctor told me there was nothing particular to be concerned about and gave me some pictures of the inside of my body. I walked out of the hospital with Laurea, who gave me a card that Kina had drawn. “I hope they treated you okay,” it read, apparently. It actually read, “I Hop theatrat Oread ca”.

They treated me okay. I’m fine.

If you’re 45, schedule a colonoscopy. Procedure rates plummeted during the pandemic and still haven’t fully come back. I’ll tell you what I would now tell myself, in hindsight: It’s all pretty scary, but it’s all okay.

No point in waiting to save your life.

dad