(This article has nothing to do with cycling or epilepsy. It does have to do with physical health, especially a genre that no one talks about and that everyone should go through at some point; especially to get regular screenings after the age of 40. Cyclists may be more susceptible to issues “down there” due to long duration of sitting, inadequate air flow and humidity, infections, rashes, cysts, etc.)

“Liquid diets” are an excuse to eat nothing but jello for days.

As many of my articles begin, if you’ve been a long time follower, you will know that I’ve whined over my ailments for quite a while. A few years ago my primary care physician sent me to an allergist. That had done wonders in alleviating many of my earlier symptoms. This last year, however, my dietary issues have gotten worse.

I have tried everything.

I went back to an allergist to get a full panel this time and to see what other options were available to me. I have learned that the allergist is basically useless to me. After stabbing my arm 40-something times and sitting there for half an hour, so itchy. . . so very itchy. . . the allergist concluded that the entire test was INVALID! “Inconclusive,” he declared, and asked if I had ever been diagnosed with dermatographia. Pretty much the exact way I found out that I had Raynaud’s Disease.

So there’s that.

I even went to a naturopathic doctor. And you know what I got for the two hours wasted on the NPResque consultation? $120 in homeopathic remedies and the recommendation to take baths with epsom salts. For those of you that don’t know what homeopathic remedies are; they’re a gazillion times water to point-zero-trillion whatever it says it is. It’s like putting a drop of mercury in the ocean and saying it will heal everyone in the world of mercury poisoning. Homeopathic remedies are snake oil – and I don’t know how it is even legal for that quack to be working at my hospital.

Maybe I should take a soothing bath to zen out after my hippie-doctor rage, but instead I was determined to find out what was wrong with me so I kept pestering the doctors. I thought maybe it had to do with my fibromyalgia, which I still wasn’t receiving any medication for, six months after being diagnosed. Some of my rage stemmed from my neurologist; whom upon my rheumatologist deferring my fibro meds to my neurologist due to my polypharmocology, flat out refused to provide me a medication that would not only alleviate joint and muscle pain that is crippling and debilitating to me on a daily basis, but could also eliminate my seizures or reduce my ridiculous amount of anti-epileptics I take. No. No. Instead, this neurologist wanted me to come in for a week-long ‘epilepsy monitoring unit‘ stay, despite the fact that my seizures have been stable and my focus has been on my fibromyalgia pain and my possibly related dietary distress; which up until then I had decided was a byproduct of my fibro. This was really the third strike of lousy, unsympathetic, shitty moves this neurologist made, so I decided to seek other opinions. It took me two months to get into another neurologist. In that time, I met with my rheumatologist again, who went ahead and put me on a fibro med, actually understanding the absurdity of taking a week off of work without pay. (For the record, my new neurologist wasn’t much better – and I am pretty sure he isn’t actually an epileptologist at all.)

Poster I stare at hypnotically the entire time the GI doctor is talking to me. (Click to download PDF)

I finally made an appointment with a gastroenterologist! It took me about a month to meet with this doctor, and the day before I went to go meet with him, Portland got hit with the most incredible snow storm. (Don’t make fun of us, Minneapolis! We’re not equipped to deal with anything more solid than rain!) The roads were blocked. It was a shit-show. Dejected and in pain, barely able to (literally) keep my shit together, I called and rescheduled. Thankfully they didn’t charge me for a cancelled appointment under 24 hours, which my insurance and the clinic loves doing. I believe the weather allowed for some flexibility in scheduling that day. Soooo. .  .three weeks later, I met with the GI specialist. . . and that day, I went home with some, ummm. . . ‘sample cups.’

Hilariously, but not really in a “ha ha” way – the day before my actual appointment, we ended up going to the emergency room. My gut pain was so bad, it was akin to when I was in the hospital for my appendix, except on my lower left side. I didn’t know what was going on, because, if you know anything about anatomy, except for the intestines, there’s nothing there! So, I have all sorts of speculations going through my head from worms to ulcers to cancer. Four hours of sobbing and writhing in the waiting room only to go back and have the doctor tell me that I’m dehydrated, my potassium is low and then give me something to help with the cramping and nausea. I could have stayed home for that. I have drawers full of meds for that. I was hoping for a CAT scan. I was hoping for an ultrasound. Something. I didn’t need to waste a bunch of money (not covered by insurance) to go to the ER to be told stuff I already knew, sitting for six hours in pain and not get any help. Time and energy wasted.

GI doctor also suggested we do some exploring. A little hands-on rotor-rooting to inspect for issues. He noted that if they find what they’re looking for in the “cups” (very gypsy-esque) then we can cancel the colonoscopy, otherwise he highly recommended it. I’m all for it. I’m desperate at this point. I couldn’t eat anything but broth without getting sick. I still can’t really eat anything but broth without the gut pain.

We set the date.

I pick up the tonic from the pharmacy for the “procedure.”

The scheduler gave me the option of various times ranging from morning to afternoon for my lower endoscopy. She said that some people like to do a half-day at work before coming in. Here’s a pro-tip. Schedule it in the morning. You will NOT be able to work in the morning, unless you work from a home office and your office chair is veritably a toilet. Once you go on that clear liquid diet and drink that horrible cherry-flavored, bitter concoction, you have about a 30 minute lead time do whatever it is that you need to do before you will be abruptly dismissing yourself to the washroom.

“You can’t have a superb bowel without Suprep Bowel!” – Morgan B. (Facebook comment)

I believe the only saving grace about having the procedure done in the afternoon is the time that you must take the bowel prep solution. Because my procedure was scheduled for 10:40am, my first dose was at 6pm and the second was set for 4:45am, with no more eating (which is a misnomer, because eating means broth, gel desserts, etc) or drinking after 6:30am. I ended up sleeping on the couch after my second dose as you have to chug 32oz of water within an hour and then will find yourself up and down a dozen times “cleansing.” I was able to nod off in half-asleep lucidly bizarre dream states for about 10 minutes at a time for the next few hours, waking every 20 minutes or so with an urgent need.

There was nothing said about “pre-procedure-showering,” but. . . you know. . . I kind of wanted to cleanse myself on the outside since my inside was as empty as I felt. So I stood there in the shower an hour before we needed to leave and let the hot water wash over me, staring at my fuzzy legs, neglected over the cold winter months and suddenly felt ashamed. I don’t know why. I have gone years before without shaving. I’ve had long, silky armpit hair in the past, such is the “hispter-feminist” trend presently. But for some reason, I felt awkward. I mean, traditionally if you’re going on a date and expecting “something more” out of it, you do some personal grooming – and though I shouldn’t care – I’m not going to see these people ever again in my life. . . but they’re going to see more of me than I have or will ever see in my life. . . I pulled out a razor and the shaving cream and hacked away at my legs.

Long story short, the next day I realized I missed the entire back (haphazardly so) of both my thighs – the exact place you pretty much didn’t want to miss as that’s exactly where they were staring at for the entire hour. But you know, you win some, you lose some. At least I made an effort.

Guests aren’t allowed in the back, so this is Brad’s all too familiar view.

Clinics are always amusing to me. I assume that they have the entire grocery list of allergies and medications that I take – especially if it is a place that I have worked with before, but alas. . . I have to lay there, trying to go through everything off the top of my head, curled up on a gurney, in a gown, cramping, wondering if there’s anything left in me. Wondering if it is possible that it will come out of me when I am unconscious. Pre-embarrassed by that thought, even though I would be unconscious and have no idea if it would happen or not. Having anxiety over thinking about that. Overcompensating for my panic by laughing too much and cracking stupid jokes with the nurses. Then the anesthesiologist comes in and finds out that I am allergic to eggs, which is an ingredient in the monitored anesthesia they use. So we have to go through the whole, “What happens when you eat eggs? Is it a real allergy or do you just not like them?” conversation. I’m already hooked up to an IV and what I assume is oxygen, but possibly nitrous oxide. Maybe I’m just nervous.

I don’t really remember a lot of what happens after that. The doctor comes in, asks me what my name and birthdate are. What I am there for. (All those cognitive questions.) Then the anesthesiologist pops up again on the other side of me and shows me a big ol’ syringe full of what looks like white frosting. He asks me if it looks familiar. The nurse is in the corner trying to look up what I have used in the past for previous operations. Then I remember him putting it in the IV, I’m looking down at it and he asks, “Are you waiting for it to start working?“

Then a nurse opens the curtain my room as I’m waking up. It’s surreal. I’m back in the processing room. She gives me paper. I’m shaky. I’m confused. She tells me to get dressed, but I don’t really register it as I’m looking at the paper. Plus, she hasn’t lowered the bar on my gurney. I stare at the paper without really reading it. A few minutes later a nurse comes back and asks if I’m ready. “I forgot.” I mumble. She opens the curtain and lowers the bar for me. I hastily get dressed and half open the curtain to signal that I’m ready to go.

She let’s me use her arm to walk out. I’m wobbly. I’ve got the spins. No silliness anymore. I just want to sleep. And eat. I want to eat everything in the world. But I realize they still don’t know what’s wrong with me so I still have that going on for me.

Initial discovery was inflammatory bowel disease by way of the sample cups. After they did all the little biopsies and all, the formal diagnose is lymphocytic colitis. This is apparently a rare disorder and generally affects men and women in their 50s and older. Plus, there’s not a treatment for it – just another handful of pills.