Why I got a colonoscopy at 40.
It probably saved my life.
March is colorectal cancer awareness month. I know how not fun it is to talk about your colon. I used to feel embarrassed to talk about it, too. I now know that colorectal cancer is one of the deadliest cancers for people 55 and under. Many (way too many) people are getting diagnosed in their 20s and 30s.
Here’s why I got a colonoscopy at 40. It probably saved my life.
This looks like an episode of Dexter, I thought to myself before flushing.
I washed my hands, fixed my sequined Minnie Mouse eared headband (the ones I promised myself I’d never, ever buy… and then bought my daughter and I matching ones the second we arrived) and marched back to my husband and kids.
You’re not supposed to analyze your own blood splatter patterns at Disney World, the Most Magical Place on Earth. Especially when that blood comes from your butt.
Ashamed and totally freaked out, I couldn’t bare to share this troubling development— not even with my husband. So I sprinkled magical fairy dust over my head, slapped on a brave face, and floated through Pirates of the Caribbean, where the only booty I cared about was my own.
This whole bleeding thing wasn’t new. I’d mustered the courage to tell my OB about it a year prior. “Oh, that sounds like internal hemorrhoids, perfectly normal after having babies.” Oh goody, another fun way motherhood permanently changed my life. (Obligatory note: I love my kids! This does not mean I love how they’ve changed everything!). She told me to monitor the situation, and let her know if anything changed.
They’d changed alright. For months, I felt a low-grade anxiety about my insides.
And then I started feeling anxiety from the outside, too. I listened to Katie Couric on a podcast, where she talked about losing her husband to colon cancer at 42. I’d see commercials about non-invasive colon cancer screenings. A childhood friend shared her colon cancer diagnosis on Instagram. A friend from college died at 34(!) from colon cancer.
It really did feel like the universe was trying to tell me something. Like at least once a day, for many days. Like maybe one of you is feeling right now, reading this, thinking, okay, okay… maybe this is another sign to just schedule the appointment.
Finally, I called my doctor.
(Do you have any of these symptoms? Are you 45 or older? You should call, too.)
When I told my her about the continued bleeding, she asked me to make an appointment with the clinic’s hemorrhoid specialist. I felt simultaneous panic (do I really have to see a hemorrhoid specialist?! WHYYYYYY!) and wonder (there is a person who devoted their career hemorrhoids! How niche!). I made the appointment, finally too scared to feel embarrassed talking to the scheduler about my butt probs.
At my appointment 10 days later, pitting out my t-shirt from nerves, the nicest, most normal woman walked into the exam room and introduced herself. She said, I know you don’t want to be here, nobody does. I promise this will be fast and not as weird or as uncomfortable as you think. I do this all day, every day, it’s no big deal to me.
As I lay pants-less in the fetal position, chatting about god knows what to keep my mind off the situation going on behind me, I thought to myself… You know what? This really isn’t as weird as I thought it would be!
When the exam was over, she broke it down:
The good news is that everything I can see looks normal. The bad news is that I can’t see where the bleeding is coming from. So, you’ve just earned yourself a colonoscopy.
Ugh, I thought. A colonoscopy! She continued.
If they don’t find anything, you won’t need another one for 10 years. And they recommend them for anyone over 45, so you’re really only going five years early.
All of a sudden, I no longer felt ashamed about my little situation. I explained everything to my husband when I got home, and booked that colonoscopy for the following week.
What the prep is like:
Everyone who’s had a colonoscopy bitches about the prep. It’s not fun, but I’ve had a baby cut out of my body twice, so I dunno… things could be worse. In the days leading up to the procedure, you systematically remove things from your diet.
Three days before: Eat only low-fiber foods. (yeah so like pasta, cereal, potatoes, delicious cookies… basically eat like a child! This felt like a treat to me!). Cut out anything with seeds. You can guess why.
One day before: Go on a clear-liquid diet. (I’m an eater, and this wasn’t as bad as expected.)
The evening before: Drink half of a prescription laxative drink to clean out your colon (you drink the rest the next day). This part sucks because you're basically chugging off-brand Gatorade as though it’s cheap keg beer at a frat party. Maybe they should hand out a funnel to down it beer bong-style.
The morning of: A little hair of the dog, aka the rest of the off-brand Gatorade.
There is now a pill form of the prep stuff, which I didn’t have the pleasure to try. Either way, by the time your appointment rolls around, you will basically be peeing out of your butt. Sorry, I thought you were reading this because you wanted to know what to expect.
What the procedure is like:
My husband drove me to the appointment (because someone had to drive this loopy lady home after). After checking in, they brought me back to the procedure room (one of maybe a dozen— they do a lot of colonoscopies!).
I changed into a flimsy hospital gown. The nurse (we’ll call her Linda) walked me through the process: I’d be getting an IV, which would administer a low dose of fentanyl(!).
Most people don’t even remember the procedure, she said. They say it felt like a dream. A lot of people actually fall asleep.
The doctor was running behind (of course), so with nerves blazing and my colon emptied, I asked the nurse a million questions, mostly about the fentanyl because, even taking it in a controlled setting, fentanyl is scary! She explained that when people overdose on fentanyl, it’s because their bodies become so relaxed that they lose the drive to breathe.
Don’t worry, honey, Linda said. If I notice your breathing get shallow, I’ll remind you to take some deep breaths.
Ha. Ha. Hahahahahaha, okay Linda!
The doctor finally arrived, and after not shaking his hand, he asked me to roll on my left side so we could get this party started.
The first thing I noticed is how close my face was to a giant monitor. I’m talking maybe 24 inches from the screen. He started the procedure (I felt absolutely nothing once the scope entered the cave), and boom! My colon made its silver screen debut.
As I looked at the pink tube on the screen, I waited for the fentanyl-laced dream to commence. I felt warm and tingly, but more alert than expected. So alert that I started asking more questions. How long is the part of the colon you ‘scopy? (About five feet!). What’s that little bump? (It’s a small polyp— totally normal, and we’re going to remove it!).
And then… I saw it. Something that definitely, for sure, was not supposed to be growing in my colon. The room got real quiet and serious. I choked out a, “What’s… that?”
The doctor said something about a polyp, but this one did not look like the others. It looked like a stalk of cauliflower (TMI? I don’t care anymore!). I stopped asking questions and buried my face into the crinkly, paper-covered pillow. I wished for this to feel more like a dream, or for a wave of sleep to envelop me. Instead, I cried and cried and cried and cried, hoping my body stayed relatively still because of the tiny camera and surgical equipment inside my colon.
After the procedure, the nurse wheeled me to the post-op room where my husband Josh waited. Steaks of mascara stained my cheeks.
Are you okay? he asked, totally freaked out. I shrugged.
Why are you crying, sweetie? Everything is okay! said Linda.
I cried out of relief, as though I’d been carrying this invisible backpack of anxiety. I cried because I listened to my body, and to Katie Couric. I cried because I was right, something was wrong. And I cried because of all that fentanyl.
The doctor came in to check on me. He said I knew I felt emotional, but I had nothing to worry about. You got in here early, he said. Another few years and it may not have been the same story.
All of the polyps the removed came back benign. However, because I had an adenomatous polyp (aka the weird one which is more likely to become cancerous), I’ll be chugging that off-brand Gatorade and getting scoped every three years. I also needed to inform any close relatives (siblings and children) that they should be screened before age 30.
No one wants to get a colonoscopy. But I don’t want colorectal cancer more.
Some Sh!t to Know about Colorectal Cancer:
Of all cancers, colorectal cancer (CRC) will take the most lives of people under 50 by 2030
The number of patients in the US diagnosed under 55 years of age doubled from 11% in 1995 to 20% in 2019
One in 3 adults (ages 45-75) are not getting screened as recommended
CRC is preventable with screening and affordable take-home options
A few things you can do to help reduce your risk of colorectal cancer:
Eat more fiber! I eat a lot of fruit and vegetables, but also add a scoop of Regular Girl stuff to my morning water (recommended by the aforementioned hemorrhoid specialist). It’s tasteless and has the cutest packaging. And it’s for MEN too, so get over the name and just buy it already.
Eat less meat. Sorry, I don’t make the rules!
Stop smoking, drink less. Again, don’t shoot the messenger.
Schedule your colon screening. Everybody has a butt. It’s not that big of a deal.
I'm so glad you went, and have visibility and control over this. Thank you for sharing. You have me thinking about getting appointments for my husband and I.
Have my last one( aging out !) scheduled this month. Never a problem, but every 10 years isn’t a burden to make sure you are ok You could save some lives with this , Molly. 👍👍