“Ok,
there’s a gown and a robe in the tub.” The tub thumps on the small bench in the
exam room. “Remove everything and place it in the tub.” She doesn’t mention my
dignity, but I assume that it is to go into the tub, as well. “You can keep
your bra on.” Ah, there is one last vestige of control and I will surely take
it. I will be nearly naked under the thin, oversized, cotton gown, but, by God,
at least I’ll have my bra.
I slink
quietly out of my jeans and t-shirt and hear the assistant’s reminder in my
head, “make sure you take off your underpants.” As if I thought that was an
option. Removing my clothes, I expose as little skin as possible for fear that
there may be someone lurking in one of the corners; a dark, sinister presence
that I may have missed when I first scanned the room for dangers. The cool
hospital air raises the peach fuzz on my belly and I stop for a moment to
pretend that I’m anywhere but here. I feel dwarfed by the one-size-fits-all
method of assigning gowns to patients, as if donning this garment has reduced
me to a child. But wait, the mess of fabric, wires, and straps wrapped around
my chest reminds me that I still have some control, some independence. I anchor
my thoughts on that and stand just a little bit taller.
After
about a million questions, a physical exam, and placement of an IV, I am
released to the patient waiting room. Shuffling into the hall, I see my
boyfriend waiting. He smiles, gently. He is a beacon in a sea of blue hair. I
untangle myself from my IV tubing and sit in a lovely recliner that is more
like a tilted exam table than a real piece of furniture. Easy clean up, I
suppose. We don’t talk much at first, just hold hands and wait for the drugs to
take me away. I overhear the ladies in the curtain area next to mine. They are
wondering if they will get home in time for Wheel of Fortune and discussing the
quality of the pot roast at the care center.
“We are
far too young to be here.”
Brett
nods his head in agreement and I shake mine in frustration and disbelief. I am
32 years old and I am having a colonoscopy. How did this become my life? I am
not overweight, nor particularly sedentary. I go for walks on my lunch and I
always take the stairs. I haven’t eaten wheat, or any other source of gluten,
in three years. I should be healthy, in the prime of my life. Instead, I am
lined up for a series of diagnostic tests to determine why I am no longer able
to regularly absorb nutrients and expel waste.
They
transfer me to the procedure room and I feel as if there are far too many
people here. How did I get in this room surrounded by four gloved and gowned
figures looming over me, waiting to invade my inner sanctum? In an instant, I
want to back out of the procedure. I want to thank the nice doctor, but explain
that I’m feeling much better and I’m sure some lifestyle changes will do the
trick. As the scope gets near, I’m ready to leap off the table… but then I slip
into the sweet dreamland of conscious sedation.
In the
recovery room, the doctor tells me that everything looked good. What I hear is,
“you just let this dude violate you with a length of plastic tubing for no
reason.” I should be relieved that I don’t have colon cancer, diverticulitis,
polyps, or any other of a host of gastrointestinal illnesses, but I’m left
right back where I started – wondering why an otherwise healthy young person
would be have so much trouble with the simple act of digesting food.
After
recovering from the procedure, I start to give some serious thought to this
food thing. As a person with food sensitivities, I am familiar with the effects
that the wrong foods can have on the body. But what if it’s more than just
sensitivity resulting in some discomfort? What if our food is actually killing
us? Obviously if you eat fast food every day and binge drink on the weekends,
your diet is killing you. But what about the rest of us? What about those of us
who are really trying to live well, eat good food, and enjoy our treats in
moderation? Why are we still getting sick?
I
certainly don’t have the answers to these questions, but I do intend to find
out what I can. I have realized that it’s absurd to fill your body with poison
and then wonder why you’re sick. The tricky part, though, is that the poison is
in more places than you think. I thought that eliminating wheat, dairy, and
processed foods was sufficient. It’s
clear to me now that there’s more to it than that. Even the foods that we think
are healthy are likely to host silent killers. Dyes, additives, and
preservatives that we are not able to process lying in wait in the guise of
health food. It’s not enough for me anymore to just look at the things that I
don’t consume, I need to look at everything that I do consume that just shouldn’t
go into the human body.
My life
may depend on it.
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