Early. My endoscopy was scheduled so very early. Mornings were tough on me on a regular day and I was due to arrive at the Outpatient Check-In Desk at 6:45am.
I began the backwards math.
I allotted ten minutes to walk from the parking garage, down to the main hospital lobby, and back up to the 3rd Floor to check in. I’d need to park by 6:35am, but that’s a weird time so for the sake of both my memory and unforeseen obstacles, I would round to 6:30am.
Five minutes to creep around each level of the parking garage, hoping my headlights were bright enough to prevent any collisions as I navigated each narrow turn.
Five more to wait outside the entrance of the garage in the line of cars accumulating behind a poor soul unfamiliar with garage parking ticket protocols. That put me at 6:20am.
One hour travel time, well padded to account for traffic, construction and/or trips to fill the car’s gas tank that I had meant to do the night before. I’d need to be on the road by 5:20am.
Ten minutes to defrost the windshield, run back inside to retrieve a forgotten item, one last at-home bathroom break, and to set the GPS.
Ten minutes to walk out the front door, take two steps, turn around and jiggle the front doorknob to ensure it was, indeed, locked, then shlep my purse, medical records, day planner and water bottle in to my low, two door Sunfire. 5:00am out the door.
15 minutes to say goodbye to the cats.
Ten minutes to double check I had keys, insurance cards, ID, and confirmation of the procedure’s location.
Ten minutes to give the cats their breakfast and a few squeezes. 4:25am.
Five minutes to panic, walk into several rooms without knowing why, and/or lose the phone that would be in my hand.
30 minutes to shower, brush my teeth and hair, and dress in the pre-selected clothes hung on the back of the bathroom door. 3:50am. No sign of the sun.
Five minutes to wake up, realize I already took the medicine on the bedside table and this was already the second alarm. 3:45 am.
30 minutes to sleep while my medicine kicked in, making bright and bumpy car rides less nauseating.
3:15am. First alarm. Wake up, take the medicine sitting on the bedside table with a sip of water, also on the table in a specific heavy cup with a lid to minimize cat interference.
I set the alarms on my phone grumpily.
Morning came, and I arrived to my endoscopy with no trouble. Since I was unable to drive myself home, my Hubberton-then-boyfriend took the day off to be both chauffeur and recovery nurse. My anxiety was through the roof. They gave me medicine to “calm my nerves” but apparently my nerves didn’t give af and flexed even harder just to show the medicine who was winning this panic vs induced-serenity battle. It sure wasn’t zen gardens.
After paperwork I was almost positive they had on file already and getting fitted for a new scannable bracelet, I told Hubberton-then-boyfriend goodbye as I was brought behind the sea of curtains. I changed into the thin hospital robe behind a curtain. I climbed into a bed surrounded by curtains and waited until one panel of curtain opened and I was IV’ed up.
It always was freezing and I always knew it would be freezing. I wrapped myself in my rectangle poncho I had selected as the best, washable option that also would not interfere with IV lines. The volunteers always offered “warmed sheets”. The thought was so kind that I would try not to let them see my continued shivering. Even a stacked six-pack of “warmed sheets” only stayed warm the exact amount of time it took to straighten them around me. I suspected the 60 thread count and constant washing with strong cleaners was to blame, and honestly, I’d rather be snuggled with mesh that was properly sanitized than melt under the thickest blanket if it only got a few febreeze spritzes in a few smelly spots.
The bright lights overhead made the bleached hospital glow. Actually glow. They may use lightning bug technology or something but the combination of the lights and the white everything made me think I could walk the halls looking through the lids of my closed eyes because they were for sure not thick enough to keep out the glare.
Through the open curtain I looked to the other patients for comradery. They must have similar procedures. No one returned my weak smile and little wave. There were five other patients. One had presumably just gotten through with his testing. His anesthesia was wearing off and he began moaning.
My brain calculated two thoughts at the same time:
1. All five of the other waiting patients were easily in the late 70’s early 80’s.
2. The guy coming back from his la-la land nap was definitely not having a good time transitioning.
I was trembling, and not from the cold this time. I knew I was in pain and needed testing to find out why, but I was only in my early twenties. I was with a group of elderly patients in various stages of discomfort, but they had all lived a life. Did I have a disease typically reserved for the elderly? Was I going to actually die, so young?
Just as I was imagining who would speak at my wake, an angel of a nurse appeared. She drug behind her a coat rack holding two full IV bags and started attaching tubes.
The doctor came in right as she started the line and I became cold from the inside out. The doctor asked me what I was having done today. I had expected the doctor would have peeked in my chart or on his to-do list or SOMETHING that would clue him in on which end he would be scoping patients from that day. He had, he assured me, but needed me to say what was being done in my own words to ensure I knew what was happening. Legal stuff.
The rush from the IV became too distracting to bear and I begged the nurse still arranging my wires if the IV could please be “turned down” whatever that meant. I now know my veins are anatomically very small, typically requiring pediatric needles for placement. But all I knew then was I couldn’t stand it and thankfully, the nurse made adjustments to slow the drip.
“My understanding is you will send a small camera on a selfie stick down my esophagus to see what you can see.” The doctor left satisfied and ordered some additional IV sedation.
A few minutes passed and my heartbeat stopped pounding so fast at my temples. I took a deep breath and exhaled. I looked around to the other patients, none of whom looked as if any of this was new. That scared me.
A whole gang of nurses, transporters, doctors and a sweet volunteer showed up at once. Some had masks and hair nets. The volunteer asked to take my glasses. My zen moment was gone.
I kept repeating, “But it hasn’t kicked in yet, I am still fully awake!” I misunderstood the process, thinking the IV sedation should have made me fully unconscious before rolling me into the Operating Room. I was terrified that my body somehow needed more medication to knock me out than was standard for my small frame. Images of waking up and choking halfway through the procedure couldn’t be wiped from my mind.
Double doors swung open both ways and I was wheeled into a torture chamber if it was a torture chamber on the sun. Those hallways were shadows in comparison. I think one medical team member even had a light on their forehead.
My information was being read off and I then heard the doctor mention the sphincters he wanted to be sure to pay close attention to. “Uh, no, I’m here for an UPPER endoscopy this time,” I said fearfully.
He wasn’t talking to me, he was talking to a recorder for the operative report that he paused to inform me the human body has many sphincters. Even one in the esophagus, in this case. I blindly was rolled to my side and told to count backwards from ten. I reached two, thinking of sphincters the full eight seconds leading up to my deep sleep.
My endoscopy took a little more than twenty minutes. I woke up behind a different set of curtains and found I had no control over my speech. Anything and everything I thought, I said out loud. First, I was talking to myself, encouraging myself to not look at or move my arm with the IV. Needle or no needle there was something in my vein and I could feel it and it didn’t hurt exactly but would definitely be bruised and sore by tomorrow.
My angel of a nurse returned. Still unable to stop talking, I apologized for being a bother and a baby. She covered the arm with the IV with the crepes-mistaken-for-sheets. Thin as they were, the visual trigger was removed. She handed me a wellness magazine and I flipped through a few pages. Unable to read I continued my monologue. Wasn't my nurse brillant to hide my IV? And what a sweet person to even rummage up a magazine. I repeated my musings to Hubberton-then-boyfriend when they allowed him to come back to the recovery curtains. I was so busy filling him in I didn’t see he held a handful of flowers. This led to more apology ramblings for not noticing them. There was no controlling my mouth from speaking every repetitive thought.
My angel-nurse returned, took one look at the flowers on my bed and laughed. She said she had never seen flowers given for an endoscopy before and we were quite a pair. I continued to shower her with praise as she removed the evil IV and replaced it with a cotton ball and pressure. My throat was a little scratchy and the miniature juice box went down quick.
The doctor came in with a set of images that looked exactly like tunnels in a cave and the head lamp from earlier suddenly made perfect sense. I asked Hubberton-then boyfriend if he knew there were more sphincters than just the anal sphincter with zero context and a smattering of giggles.
The doctor diagnosed me with Barrett’s Esophagus. Extra cells were growing at the base of my esophagus. I would need to repeat this procedure annually to take biopsies. As long as I was faithful in returning annually, there would be enough time to treat any growths should they become cancerous in the future, he said. When asked if I had any questions, I inquired about the health of my esophagus sphincter. My doctor tried to hide an eyeroll behind a slow blink.
“Make your follow-up appointment before you go,” he said as he left; unamused and likely reminding himself of the new boat my illness was paying for.
I dressed and gathered my things slowly, stopping to write and drop a folded card into an archaic suggestion box hanging by the nurse’s station.
“My nurse was an angel,” it said, “I would like to suggest you give her a raise. I also suggest for the name of your new ship: The S.S. Sphincter.”
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