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The enemy identified, my worst fears came alive,
But not for long, the time of retribution is nigh,
Acceptance of a battle that will rage beyond overnight,
Marching towards a glorious victory to reclaim a normal life.

August 6 – 11, 2018

The details of the colonoscopy and its immediate aftermath are outlined in the very first entry of this blog. Here is the link: https://musicalmemories.whereishome.info/2018/11/12/the-wonder-of-you/

I may have felt confident and rejuvenated following a heart-to-heart with my mother shortly after my colonoscopy and I carried those good vibes with me over the remainder of the week, but I’d be lying if I said that I was walking on sunshine and dancing atop a hill Julie Andrews-style all the way. I definitely went through a gauntlet of negative thoughts and feelings during these early stages of my recovery.
Anger? Check.
Self doubt? Check.
Anxiety? Check.
Seething with rage at being struck down that I contemplated embarking on an anger-fuelled rampage so people could feel my motherfucking pain? As petty, immature and weak as it sounds, yeah, I did.
Fortunately I prevented such emotions from consuming me, that last one included. I guarantee you that I am not writing this blog from the inside of a jail cell following an assault charge.

Anyway, I walked away from the Hospital for Specialist Surgery with a few bottles of Prednisolone, a steroid medication used to treat inflammation and other diseases. My dosage in the beginning was set at 50mg per day and was to be weaned by 5mg per week since long-term use of this drug could be harmful to the body. I was to visit Dr. B during the following week to discuss my treatment plan down the road, which included prescribing me two more drugs to take over what the Prednisolone had started once I was completely weaned off of it.
The very first salvo was fired during my first meal at home following the colonoscopy and for the rest of the week I popped 50mgs along with my mid-day meal every day. I also adopted the ‘several small meals a day’ approach to eating in an attempt to add more weight to my weakened body without stressing my bowels. I focused mainly on protein from eggs, fish and lean meat to boost my haemoglobin levels but kept the diet balanced with a good serving of carbs, fruit and vegetables.
But I had to go easy on spicy food, wholegrains and fruit as they could potentially stress my bowels and fizzy drinks and alcohol were off the menu, perhaps forever, which was no big loss since I rarely consumed either before all of this happened.
And much to my frustration I was banned from driving, working out and exerting myself in any way, not until I had put this fucking colitis in remission and was no longer anaemic and I was warned that it could be a rather lengthy process. Yeah, that pissed me off. I was essentially ordered to live like an old man for the next few months at least.

 

Man, this is gonna suck!

 

Three days after the colonoscopy my family and I celebrated my sister’s birthday. We had a lovely dinner that night but alas, the best dish of the night was on the spicy side and so I couldn’t have too much of it. The little bit I had was beautiful and the rest of the night was spent trying to resist the urge to dive back in for more.

 

Watch it, Buddy. You aint invincible no more!

 

It was still a good night overall and we shared plenty of stories and laughs in addition to a nice family dinner. It was gratifying to be strong enough to join my younger sister in celebrating her special day, that right there was my warning shot to the disease wreaking havoc within.

 

I aint laying down, punk! Prepare yourself for an ass-whooping!

 

But like I said earlier, I did go through some low points. Feelings of doubt were justified whenever I went to the toilet in the mornings and saw that ugly shade of red in the bowl and my lips, fingertips and ears remained colorless. Being diagnosed as having severe pancolitis, essentially the most lethal form of ulcerative colitis, didn’t help. Would the Prednisolone Army be up to the task of overthrowing this vicious monster that had so thoroughly conquered my system the same way that the Ottoman Empire had ran riot over Constantinople? I tried my best to maintain a positive outlook but these dark thoughts certainly did lurk in the background.
But I needn’t had worried so damn much.
Little by little, small miracles began to make their presence felt days after I began taking my meds. While the results of my morning business sessions on the throne remained tinged with blood, afternoon and evening trips yielded different results, much to my surprise.

 

Whoah! Hardly any blood. When’s the last time that happened?

 

It might have been a few weeks between the return from holiday and the beginning of the relapse. To say that it was a relief to know that I was no longer losing blood every time I went to defecate is a huge understatement. The euphoria I felt was so great I almost burst into tears.

 

On the following evening, a Friday, my extended family dropped by for a full family dinner and that’s when the secret was officially out. I had kept my ordeal under wraps from everybody outside of my immediate family but when one of my aunts, my mother’s sister, asked me that night how life had been treating me (we hadn’t seen each other for months), I was forced to confess as I did not want to be a liar.
“Not so good,” I admitted, “I’ve had health struggles lately.”
And just like that, the family dinner came to a screeching halt and all eyes were on me. Oh boy, this was going to be awkward!
“What? Why!?” she asked.
“I had a colonoscopy a few days ago. I have ulcerative colitis. And I’m also anaemic.”
As I’d predicted, gasps rang all around and then my relatives were left rather stumped. My other aunt, a nurse, knew immediately what it meant.
“So how badly is your bowel inflamed?” she inquired.
“The whole bowel is affected,” I replied despondently, “pancolitis, they called it.”
“Oh…..”
“And I’m anaemic from losing so much blood. I was in the hospital two weeks ago for a blood transfusion.”

My nurse aunt then proceeded to explain to everybody at the table what my diagnosis meant. A look of horror crossed over their faces and everyone’s appetites were temporarily halted.
Meanwhile, my sick self sat there sheepishly, hoping that the subject would soon be changed.
My other aunt, the one who started this line of questioning, immediately fired up.
“Why didn’t you tell us!?” she demanded, “We could have visited you!”
“I didn’t want anyone to panic,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, “didn’t need that kind of stress hanging over my head.”
And from there my parents took over for me and explained to them all what type of medication Dr. B had prescribed for me and also touched on my eating habits before reassuring everybody that I was doing just fine. That seemed to placate everyone and order was restored.

 

Thank God!

 

Unfortunately I had to ‘leave the party early’, so to speak, due to doctor’s orders to get as much rest as I could in order to speed up the healing process. I called it a night once I had noticed that the time had nudged closer towards 9:30pm and said good night to everyone before hitting the sack. I was out after mere seconds of my head hitting the pillow.

 

The celebrations continued the next day as we spent the morning and mid-day at my aunt and uncle’s house for brunch before spending time in my sister’s apartment for a late lunch and dessert.
You could say it was a day of eating, which was totally fine by me.
At my aunt and uncle’s house my relatives witnessed, for the first time, me taking my meds. I simply took my 50mgs of that Prednisolone after eating and washed it down with water. No dramas and awkward stares were to be had, thank goodness.
I also made it a point to walk around outside after every half hour to soak up the sun and cleanse my lungs. I thought that a good dose of vitamin D would aid my recovery and it was also the middle of winter and sunny days were hard to come by. I must have done dozens of laps around their backyard on the duration of our visit.

 

After a while we drove to my sister’s apartment located around 20 minutes away for more food and chatter. Surely I must have regained all the weight I had lost in the last few months by this point!
I weighed myself the very next day and it turns out I did not. Damn!!!!
Anyway, it was a typical family get-together, with all the women on one side, in this case the living room, and the men on the other side, in the dining area, talking about their own respective subjects while intermittently interacting with the other party to keep each other informed.
I stayed with the men for the most part but every now and then I would step outside into the balcony for some sunshine and fresh air. The view outside wasn’t exactly glamorous, the balcony overlooked a busy street and a gas station across the street, partially blocked by a towering jacaranda tree at the front of the complex, but beyond the immediate view was what seemed like a utopia of rooftops and apartment buildings within the thick glade of trees.

 

I stared at that view for a while as the wind blew on my face, reflecting on the last few days and the battle that lay ahead. I was fairly certain that there would be times where I would impatiently question if any of my treatment was working, including having to put up with bouts of paranoia whenever I felt the slightest bit of pain and discomfort, such was the mind of a chronic disease sufferer. I felt like a lone warrior about to embark on a perilous mission to slay some mythical yet dangerous creature that threatened to destroy his life and the lives of those he loved and while I had accepted the mission and was confident of victory, a part of me did question if I was worthy of this battle, let alone if I would emerge triumphant.
It was during this time of meditation that I finally made peace with not being able to work out during this period. I had to accept the fact that my lean and athletic body, at this point still ripped and rippling with muscle, would undergo a change during this exile from athletic and physical endeavors. Yeah yeah, call me narcissistic all you want but the truth is I was once a chubby kid that was teased by his schoolmates about having a gut and man boobs – quite hypocritical on their part since some of them were on the same boat as I was. Angry and slightly traumatized by the experience, I started working out during my late teens and never looked back, gradually huffing and puffing my way into pretty good shape and fitness. Working out had become a huge part of my daily routine so to have to give it up for a lengthy period was not going to be easy. But recovery was way more important than my ego and so rather than complain I switched my mindset into thinking that this illness was only temporary. At the time of this writing the only real ‘cure’ for ulcerative colitis, if you could call it that, was to remove the patient’s colon should medical treatment fail beyond the point of no return or the disease escalate to life-threatening levels. In my mind, however, there was no fucking way in hell any of that was ever going to happen.

 

I’ll kick this motherfucker’s ass. I’ll show ’em!

 

I stepped back indoors, where my family were still carrying on their own conversations. I took a seat on the dining table where my father and uncles were talking while my sister, mother and aunts continued their chat in the living room area on the sofa. I didn’t join in either conversation but instead sat in silence, still maintaining my calm but also soaking up the family vibes. All in all it was a great weekend, definitely the boost that I needed.

These UC stories are fast piling up,
Let’s take a breather, back to stories from when I was young,
Here we go, a memory sparked by this tune by Don McLean,
One of my earliest memories of going to the beach.

 One of the most vivid road trips that I can recall from my childhood was one particular trip to the beach, where I would learn that I had a rather embarrassing fear of the water (which would quickly be overcome a few years later) and that sunburn truly is a nasty and vindictive bully. I was about five or six years old at the time and whenever I hear the song that this blog was named after on the radio, I can’t help but smile and laugh at memories from that particular trip.

It was on a Saturday during the summer time and my parents took my sister and I to the beach, accompanied by some of my mother’s work buddies and their families. It was a rather long trip, coming from the outskirts of Quezon City over to the coastal side of Bataan and I took in the view during that car ride, watching as the scenery gradually and seamlessly changed from the quiet suburban streets, lined with iron gates that shielded family homes, to the skyscrapers of the city where cars waged their own chess matches in an attempt to outwit and outplay one another while navigating a persistently chaotic traffic scene.
Driving through the city was easily the longest and most frustrating part of the trip. But as a child I had barely grasped the concept of time and was content to watch the cars around me.
Soon, we reached the rural areas, with their sprawling fields where various crops sprouted from the earth as farm animals grazed. We also drove through a few small country towns, populated by stone houses, general stores and the odd school, church and government building while various mountains loomed in the distance, providing a rather majestic backdrop.

 

The beach must be somewhere out there.

 

As we got closer to the beach, where the bright blue of the ocean glistened in the distance, a scene unfolded before us that, to this day, I still find rather surreal. On the side of the road were groups of fishermen, their skin brown and leather-like from the harsh mid-day sun and dressed in tattered shirts, shorts and straw hats, drying their fish on the side of the road and warding off the swarms of flies that continually harassed them. It was a rather hot day and our car’s air-conditioning system had konked out and so we drove with the windows down and the strong, salty smell of fish instantly attacked us.
“Those are fish, Son,” Dad pointed out, “the fishermen are drying them under the sun.”
“Are they going to eat them later?” I asked.
“Perhaps.”
“Ok, but first they need to wash the dirt off, right?”
Dad smiled, proud of his boy for pointing out the obvious.

We reached the beach not long afterwards and we were immediately greeted by a magnificent spread upon exiting our vehicles; palm trees, the vast blue ocean, white sand, shining sun, people walking around, relaxed and carefree as can be. For my still-wide-eyed, youthful self it was plenty to take in and I barely managed to contain the many emotions that bubbled within me, euphoria and curiosity being those at the forefront banging hard on the bars of the gate. My sister more or less felt the same and Mom had to pull us both into line.

“Settle down, you two,” she said sternly, “you don’t want to get lost, do you?”

Our group settled on a spot in the middle of the sand and the adults immediately unloaded, spreading towels on the sand and erecting beach umbrellas to ward off the sun before applying sunscreen on their children’s arms, shoulders, back, neck and legs. I wore dark blue swimming trunks with white stripes that day and I struggled to remain still as my mother lathered me up with sunscreen. The stuff felt sticky and uncomfortable and the aroma was quite intoxicating to the point of nauseating. Plus I saw this as a distraction to my play time, I just wanted to run off.
“Hold still,” Mom scolded, “do you want to get sunburned!?”
“The sun can’t burn me,” I shot back, “it’s way up in the sky and I’m down here!”
My young dumb self would be made to eat humble pie later that night.

The kids, accompanied by some adults, soon hit the water. The waves were not too wild that day, much to the dismay of any surfers in the area, so it was relatively safe for young children such as myself, my sister and some of my mother’s co-workers’ children to play without fear of being wiped out.
Well, we stayed in the shallow end and somehow, I freaked out. I’d looked forward to playing in the water all morning and reality ended up getting the better of me. My Dad had stayed in the sand chatting away with the other adults that volunteered to prepare the lunch and upon hitting the water, I wished I had stayed with him. I wasn’t sure whether it was the coldness of the water or the fact that the water was waist-height (for me, anyway) but somehow, I felt uncomfortable.
My mother sensed my discomfort and bent over to pick me up. I immediately latched onto her neck and it was fortunate that I was still young at the time because I could have easily choked her out.
“You’re holding too tight!” she said.
“I don’t want to drown!” I replied.

The water was only waist-deep for me and I was worried about drowning? Good grief!

Get a grip you wuss!

One of my mother’s friends and her children were not too far away and they seemed to be having fun and my sister seemed comfortable dancing around on the water without a care in the world yet it took me a while to see the fun side of it. But once my body finally acclimatized to the water I gladly splashed around with the other children while our parents looked on.

 

Lunch followed not long afterwards, barbequed chicken, rice and various fruits if I recall. Adults and children alike ate to their heart’s content and for the remainder of the trip the children played a game of tag while their parents huddled together under trees to ward off the sun’s rays.
All told it was a rather fun day trip. But there was a price to pay.
Upon arriving home, my sister and I both took a bath and as I poured water over my head, I felt a sharp stinging pain on my shoulders, parts of my back and the back of my neck, so much so that I yelped and was almost reduced to tears. I took a look at my shoulders and they were bright red.

 

What is this!?

 

My mother took a look at me and shook her head in disbelief.
“Looks like you have sunburn, Son.”
Sunburn? What the hell is sunburn!?
“You played under the sun for too long so you got burned.”
“But the sun is way up in the sky,” I whinged, “how can it burn me?”
“Because the sun’s rays can still burn you. That’s why sunblock is very important.”
I guess I shouldn’t have squirmed so much when she applied it on me. Some spots were definitely missed due to my messing about. I looked at my reddened shoulders later as my mother helped me to dress up for bed and grimaced.
“How long will this last?”
“Maybe for a few days.”
I felt my heart sink. In my young mind a few days might as well had been an entire month, that’s a long time to have to put up with these burning sensations.

I eventually learned how to swim later in my childhood and up to now, I like to think I’m a pretty good swimmer. No, I am not Michael Phelps but I can confidently say that I could handle myself in the water.
As for the kid that fell apart over waist-deep water, he eventually became a kid that grew to love the water and most beach trips for the remainder of my childhood were spent frolicking in the waves while dodging surfers. If you lost me at the beach all you had to do was head towards the water because chances are I would be there, playing around in the waves, having the time of my life until my fingers and toes were wrinkled.

The sands of that hourglass finally ran dry,
Rise and shine, Kid, D-Day has arrived,
You’ve gone to hell and back and emerged intact,
Yeah, Boy, you got this! Time to fight back.

 

6 August 2018

The day had arrived at last and the very first thing I did upon waking was to spring out of bed like a jungle cat that had sensed its prey and then dash straight into the toilet. I sat there for fifteen minutes before cleaning myself up and then returned to my room to gather my outfit for my date with destiny – a loose pair of sweats, a hoodie and a plain white t-shirt as I was instructed to dress as comfortably as possible.
Upon gathering my clothes I felt the ‘urge’ once more and returned to the toilet to unload some more excess fluids and waste. Man, two times in less than half an hour – that formula was still taunting me, having the last laugh. Considering that I would not have so much as a drop of water trickle down my throat until after the colonoscopy, which was scheduled three hours later, I sure hoped that this was the last time that I would have to deal with that prep’s after-effects.

 

Fortunately, there were no more emergency visits to the toilet before my parents and I made our voyage to the clinic. I sat pensively in the passenger seat, listening to the music on the radio and doing my best to keep the emotions within from exploding, much like a stubborn child trying to keep his wardrobe from bursting due to the massive amounts of junk he had thrown in there in a lazy attempt to ‘tidy up his room’.
“You’ll be ok, Son,” said Mom, who was seated at the back while Dad drove, “you got through the hard part last night.”
We pulled up to the Hospital for Specialist Surgery, located not far from Dr. B’s practice, after a twenty minute drive. Fortunately, the traffic along the way hadn’t reached peak levels yet, ensuring a quick and stress-free drive. The clinic was a white, modern-looking building with white interiors and glass doors, resembling some sort of high-tech science lab or art museum. Heck, it could have passed off as the headquarters for a team of superheroes!

I brought a bottle of water with me not to drink out of, but to moisten the inside of my mouth whenever it dried up. Yeah yeah, I was well aware that I was forbidden from eating and drinking and behaved myself. Once my parents and I had checked in with the receptionists and taken a seat at the waiting room I made several trips to the toilet to gurgle and spit some water – and at one point I ducked into a cubicle for some last-minute ‘business’. At least now I knew that my bowels were well and truly ready.
That waiting room was already rather crowded and the front desk fully staffed. Getting up this early on a Monday? Yeah, it was a drag and it showed on the faces of patients and staff alike. My parents and I were lucky to find three vacant seats in a row and as we sat down and made ourselves comfortable I took a look at the people around me, other pyjama-clad patients with a friend or relative acting as their support system and post-surgery chauffeur seated beside them. Other than a relatively young-looking woman who was accompanied by her mother a majority of the patients were middle-aged and some aged over sixty. I surmised that they were here, at the very least, as part of a routine bowel cancer screening.
Nurses and surgeons regularly came and went to call patients in and at one point, Dr. B himself emerged from the operating rooms and approached the front desk before returning. He caught my eye as he walked past and winked at me.

A part of me wondered how many cups of coffee he had consumed that morning.

I took one last trip to the toilet, bottle of water in hand, to gurgle and wash my hands when it came down to the last ten minutes before my procedure. My mouth was bone-dry and also, I seized the opportunity to stretch my legs before the procedure.
Oh yeah, and I wasn’t sure whether my mind was deceiving me or not but I noticed that my feet began to feel heavy and swollen.

Oh shit…….

It was probably due to not having had anything to eat or drink since the previous night, a mild form of dehydration if you will. But thankfully, they did not swell nearly as badly as they did prior to that blood transfusion. An elderly gentleman then walked into the toilet and I turned abruptly towards him, in that “I wasn’t doing anything!” manner of one caught in the act of doing silly things on their lonesome. He briefly acknowledged my presence before walking into one of the cubicles.

 

I returned to the waiting room and sat back down on my chair, playing with my phone. A nurse called my name not long afterwards and I trudged over to a small office where she was waiting and took a seat beside her desk. She proceeded to interrogate me, asking me questions regarding my preparation and making sure that I had consumed all of the bowel prep formula and had remembered to fast before my arrival. I answered ‘yes’ to all her questions and meant it.
“Very good,” she replied before gesturing towards a small scale in the back corner of that small room.
“Please step on so we can record your current weight.”
I removed my shoes and stepped on. I weighed fifty-three kilograms, looks like that cleanse plus the fasting had stripped one kilo from my frame.
“Perfect,” said the nurse, “you may return to the waiting room now before you will be asked to get ready.”
I returned to the waiting room, where my parents were still seated. The time ticked past 9am and I began to feel rather impatient. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to just be, blocking out the noise of chatter and footsteps all around. I could have easily drifted off to sleep as I was still feeling rather groggy from the fasting.

And before I knew it I was summoned again by a different nurse, this time ordered to get ready for the colonoscopy. I was jolted straight into action.

Ok, let’s rock ‘n roll!

I handed my phone and wallet to my mother, who kept them in her purse, and gave both of my parents a hug. I won’t be seeing them again until at least two hours from now.
“You got this, Kid,” said Dad.
“You’ll be fine,” added Mom.
“Cool, thank you.”
I stretched my back and loosened my arms and legs before walking through a narrow hallway that had several doors, all leading into different dressing rooms. There was also a rather long passage way in that hall that led to the operating floor, the arena in which patients would learn their fate. I felt like a boxer or mixed martial artist getting ready for a fight, or perhaps a rock star preparing for a gig. I walked into one of the dressing rooms, which contained a couple of hospital beds, a sofa and a box in which to put my belongings. Sitting on a bed was a hospital gown, cap and scrubs for my feet. I quickly changed into my hospital wear and pile my clothes into the box before quickly ducking into a nearby toilet. There were no mirrors in my room and I was curious to see exactly what I looked like. I took one look at my reflection and laughed.

Lookin’ good, Tough Guy!

Man, talk about adding insult to injury! I looked like a clown.

Shaking my head in disbelief, I wandered back to my room, sat on the bed and awaited further instructions. The song that triggered this blog, written and recorded by Tupac Shakur, suddenly began playing in my mind and so I head-banged and lip-synched the limited amount of lyrics that I knew as I waited – which is to say that I just repeated the chorus to myself over and over again.
A male nurse, a rather tall guy in his 20’s, suddenly walked in. He carried with him a small case containing some medical paraphernalia.
“Good morning, Sir,” he greeted, “how are you today?”
“All good, how are you?”
The nurse chuckled, “a bit sleepy but I’m alright.”
“You and me both, dude.”
We both laughed before he began fiddling with the contents of the case.
“I am now going to place this catheter on the back of your right hand for the anaesthesia,” he said.
I showed him my right hand, still pale and seemingly without a trace of a vein. The nurse immediately began vigorously rubbing the back of my hand, trying to raise a vein. When that didn’t work, he began slapping my hand.
“Sorry, Mate,” he said apologetically, “I’m trying to find a vein. It’s a bit difficult because you’re currently dehydrated from the prep.”
“Fair enough.”
He kept rubbing and slapping for about a minute until finally, a vein popped up. He stuck the catheter in before instructing me to lie down on the hospital bed.
“Just relax now, Sir,” he instructed, “this won’t hurt.”
“Glad to know,” I replied.
“You’ll be asleep throughout the procedure. You won’t feel a thing.”
“Thank God,” I joked.

And with that, I was wheeled into the operating room, where Dr. B and his assistants were waiting. The nerves had evaporated, now replaced by some form of inner calm and also a sense of eagerness. I felt at peace yet was simultaneously chomping at the bit to finally unmask the cause of my symptoms. I still carried the hope that it wasn’t anything too serious but I was ready for the outcome, good or bad.

At least I thought I was.

Drifting away like a feather in air,
Here comes the bowel prep, Boy, you’d better beware,
Once again stuck on that damn liquid diet,
Trips to the can the only workout I’ma get,
Proceed with care, Dear Reader, this could get ugly,
You’ll laugh and cringe, just as I did when I reminisced for this entry.

August 5, 2018

One day in July, shortly before I was hospitalized, I did some internet research on colonoscopies and what to expect before, during and after the procedure. Among the articles that I read I found one little piece of information that grabbed my attention; apparently, the preparation was a lot harder than the procedure itself and its aftermath. In fact, the person quoted went on to state that once the patient had overcome the prep everything else would be a breeze.
At the time I found that hard to believe. The idea of having a camera put into me to examine my bowels sure as hell didn’t seem like a breeze. However, my views would be violently challenged once it was time for my own preparation. But we’ll get to that a little later.

 

The next two days following my initial consultation with Dr. B were spent making the most of the limited amount of time that I had left to enjoy solid food before I was to once again take up another bullshit liquid diet regimen. The Friday was spent enjoying as much fruits, vegetables, wholegrains, nuts and all other foods that would soon be temporarily off-limits for me as I could while the Saturday was spent enjoying solid foods period. Now forbidden from eating high-fiber food, I decided to go out in style and turned that Saturday into an epic cheat day. In addition to the white grains, meat, eggs, dairy, strained fruits and vegetables, skinless root vegetables and spreads I also allowed myself chocolate and cake. My mother had also bought some meat pies during the week and I ate not one but TWO of those bad boys as an afternoon snack, much to my parents’ amusement.
Don’t judge me! I was going to be forced into another fucking liquid diet against my will the next day before undergoing an uncomfortable and invasive medical procedure. I earned this! Besides, it’s not a cheat day unless you go all-in.

But all good things have to come to an end, unfortunately.

I had breakfast on Sunday morning at 7am, two croissants with honey plus poached eggs and a hamburger patty, and from mid-day onwards the liquid diet began.

Round two…..FIGHT!!!!

For the rest of the day I subsisted on various soups and broths cooked by my mother, plus orange-flavored jelly for dessert and large amounts of water and electrolytes. In a show of solidarity, my parents volunteered to undergo this liquid diet with me even though I pleaded with them not to, no one should have to do this shit unless they were under medical orders to do so.

But that was just the tip of the iceberg. The worst was yet to come.

Which brings us back to the bowel prep before the colonoscopy. As stated earlier, I still believed that the colonoscopy and its aftermath would be excruciating whereas some guy on the internet stated that the prep is where the real pain was. Come Sunday afternoon, my father started mixing two sachets’ worth of the formula that I had received from Dr. B’s clinic that was designed to give patients liquid diarrhea in order to clean out the bowels before the procedure. He mixed the formula with water in a rather tall jug and according to the instructions, once the formula had completely dissolved into the water I had to drink one glass’ worth every fifteen minutes within two hours until I had consumed the entire jug, followed by a few hours’ break before moving on to the remaining two sachets, also to be consumed in fifteen minute intervals within two hours. The formula was also orange-flavored so I assumed that it wouldn’t taste so bad. Hell, it couldn’t be any worse than having to survive on a liquid diet for a few days the way I did in the hospital a week ago.

 

Not so fast, tough guy!

 

Little did I know that I was about to eat – or should I say drink – my words. And boy, what a bad taste it would leave in my mouth!

I would have to wait two hours prior to drinking that formula. I poured some into a tall glass and took three deep breaths.
Here we go…..no turning back.
I held my breath and gulped it all down. Fifteen minutes later I drank another glass. And then another following another fifteen minute interval.
This isn’t so bad.
That being said, the stuff tasted horrible! The aftertaste in particular was disgusting.
After that third round, I sat down in the living room with my parents where they were watching season one of a TV series on DVD. I had just made myself comfortable on one of the chairs when I suddenly felt my bowel awaken. It was time for my first trip to the can.
I swear, I heard Michael Buffer shouting “LET’S GET READY TO RRRUUUMMMBLLLEEEE!!!!” in my mind at that moment!
I went straight to the toilet and fired away. As expected, there was blood but much to my surprise, not as much as what had become the norm. I cleaned myself up and returned to the living room. Fifteen minutes had elapsed since the last drink.
“Time for another round, Kid,” my father deadpanned.
“Ok.”
And so I had another drink. Not long afterwards, it was time to return to the can and when I returned…..yes, you guessed it, it was time for another.

I was halfway into that jug when I began to feel stomach pains, similar to the type that one would experience after one too many slices of pizza in a single sitting. Drinking large amounts of liquid in fifteen minute intervals isn’t exactly a walk in the park and no amounts of sessions in the toilet shook off that feeling of being full. My parents sensed my distress.
“Are you ok?” asked Dad.
“I’m good,” I replied, masking my discomfort. These past few months of putting up with various symptoms and ailments had tempered my pain threshold and ability to withstand torture but those were about to be put to the test once more, some next level shit if you will.
My mother, who herself had undergone a colonoscopy a few years earlier, was quick to reassure me.
“You’ll be ok,” she said, “it’s normal to feel uncomfortable during the prep. That drink is designed to give you serious diarrhea.”
Ok, at least any pain I was feeling wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, I’ll take that.

I literally spent the next two hours drinking, shitting and walking around the living room in an attempt to dull any discomfort in my stomach. It worked for a while but once I was down to the last couple of glasses that little piece of information that I had read on the internet had shockingly come to life. This prep shit was fucking torture!
My father poured out the last glass for me, finally emptying that damn jug.
“Come on, drink it,” he ordered, “this is the last one.”

I gulped down the last of the formula and then once again went to the toilet. Much to my surprise, there was less and less blood in the stools with every trip to empty my bowels, which was a positive spin on an otherwise torturous prep. I was entitled to a few hours’ respite after finishing that first jug of formula, just in time for dinner. I was rather hungry despite feeling like an over-stuffed water balloon but I couldn’t say that my dinner was particularly appetizing.

Two types of soup as the main course and orange jelly for dessert. Man, I left this fucking liquid diet shit a week ago!

Nonetheless I lapped up two bowls’ worth of soup and had a small cup of that jelly. My father seemed to enjoy it much more than I did despite not being a big fan of sweets. That stuff was too sweet and tasted artificial.
I spent the next three hours after dinner up until the next round of bowel cleansing resting, mostly parked in front of the computer watching random Youtube videos, reading and pacing up and down the living room, anything I could to distract myself from this heavy feeling in my gut without over-exerting myself. The effects of that formula still persisted and so I still made regular trips to the toilet and those frequent trips eventually began to take their toll because each trip became more painful than the last, as though my rectum was becoming weary from cleaning up my bowels. Talk about experiencing ring of fire without having to overdose on spicy food first.

Soon, it was time to mix up the remaining two sachets of formula into another tall jug of water to continue the treatment, which my father and I did two hours before the next session. I felt queasy just looking at that shit dissolve in the water.
“Still two hours away, Son,” said Dad, “just relax for now.”
My stomach had finally settled and the toilet trips were beginning to wane. I was fine for the time being, but it was merely the calm before the next damn storm.
Before I knew it, 9pm rolled around and it was time to consume what was left of that fucking bowel cleanser. My father and I were watching Warrior, a mixed martial arts themed film, when I reluctantly got up from my seat and poured out the first glass of formula from that second jug.
“Don’t drink it all at once,” advised my Dad, “Take your time.”
I drank that glass in small gulps but was instantly assaulted by that vile taste and that sickening feeling in my stomach. Rather than sit back down I paced around the living room in an attempt to prevent any feelings of fullness in my stomach but it was no use.

Calm down, Boy. You’ll need to drink more of that shit in fifteen minutes’ time.

And not long after that first gulp, it was time to make a beeline for that toilet where I expelled more liquid waste. That burning sensation persisted but I was somewhat heartened by the fact that there didn’t seem to be any more blood. That brief feeling of victory, however, was shattered as soon as I walked out. Sitting on the kitchen table was another glass of that shit that my father had poured out.

Was I in the toilet for that fucking long!?

Yeah, I guess I was.

And so I gulped down that second glass. Then I went back to the toilet. Then I gulped down another glass. On and on that fucking vicious cycle went for the next two fucking hours, where any time spent not drinking was more or less spent shitting.
I missed a large portion of that movie due to those trips to the can. But at least I got to see all the fight scenes.

After about one hour of drinking I was just about ready to pack it in. That bloated, heavy feeling in my gut reached the point where I could do nothing other than sit on the couch groaning as I clutched my stomach like a knife attack victim. By now I felt as though I had swallowed one week’s worth of meals in one sitting and that sticking a pin into my mid-section would cause me to explode into a mess of flesh, blood and that damn formula. This was a new level of hell that my willpower and strength of mind hadn’t anticipated.
Dad took one look at my face and knew right away that I was distressed.
“Hang in there, son,” he said, “you’re halfway through the jug, this will be over soon.”

 

Just halfway through!? Aaarrgghh!!!!

 

My mother, who had been preparing for bed, walked into the living room to get a drink of water. She noticed me sitting on the couch, writhing about in pain while Dad rubbed my back trying to soothe me to no avail.
“I know it hurts, Son. I’ve been there too,” she said, “the cleansing is the hard part. After this the colonoscopy will be a breeze.”
There. She echoed the words from that article I read on the internet about how the prep is far worse than the procedure. Given the type of hell that I was going through I sure hoped that they were right.
I then turned to Dad, still grimacing in agony.
“Do you think it’ll be ok if I vomited?” I wondered. Yeah, it was THAT bad.
“No, Son,” he replied rather sternly, “keep it in there and let it exit through the rectum. You’re stronger than that.”

Easy for him to say that when he wasn’t going through this crap. But he was right.

I drank another glass and followed it up with another session on the throne. My once rather agile movements, unaffected by anaemia and possibly rejuvenated by the blood transfusion, were now reduced to heavyset waddling. I dragged myself to the toilet in complete pain, resisting the urge to regurgitate as I sat down on that porcelain throne and did my business.
By now the taste of that formula had escalated from nauseating to pure fucking rancid and the ring of fire burned harder than a bushfire in summer time. The previous weekend at the hospital was looking more and more bucolic in hindsight compared to this. Like a drunken reveler exiting a nightclub and stumbling out into the streets I made my way back to the sofa and plopped down, completely drained but still feeling heavy and sluggish, urging myself internally to keep it together.

This is nothing, Kid! You got this!

Then my father tried another remedy, one that seemed to work for a while during the difficult days of the past July; he massaged my feet. It was a good move as it took my mind off the stomach pain. The timing also was perfect as we had reached the climactic moment of the film that we were watching and I was treated to some rather intense MMA action. It temporarily took my mind off my own pain.
But that massage was of no help when it was time to drink again. During my next round I tried pacing about the room once again as I drank to ensure a smoother flow through my system, but the combination of feeling full and that disgusting taste continued to torment me. I had to sit back down after finishing that glass to ward off the feelings of nausea.

A few more glasses and toilet trips later I was down to the final glass. By now I had lost count of how many times I had to shit and I didn’t even bother counting the amount of glasses I drank. I could only marvel at how I was able to gulp down what seemed like a week’s worth of water mixed with that wretched bowel cleansing formula without popping, let alone throwing up. I didn’t even have a swollen belly to show for my efforts though my stomach sure as hell felt stuffed beyond its limits, I could no longer sit or stand up straight without feeling ill. I poured the last of that liquid into the glass and weakly toasted my father, who had poured himself a glass of milk. I never thought this moment would arrive.

Last one, Kid. Don’t you fucking blow it!

I held my breath and willed myself to gulp down the last of that formula, holding my arms aloft triumphantly after I slammed my glass back down on the table – and then promptly ran back into the toilet.

 

I can’t say that trying to sleep that night was smooth sailing. With that colonoscopy now less than twenty-four hours away the nerves had kicked in and I was still dealing with the effects of the formula. I went to the toilet at least seven times before I finally drifted off to sleep.

Damn, what a day!

Well, that was that. My bowel was now completely empty, although there might be a couple more sessions on the toilet upon waking up and I would be prohibited from eating or drinking anything until after the procedure. The hard part is done and dusted, now onto the main event……..

Caught in the rain but hardly dancing,
Can’t risk blacking out, still low on haemoglobin,
Here it comes, another key player on the team,
The myth, the legend, the man himself, the great Dr. B!

August 2, 2018

In the following days after my return home from the hospital I felt as though I was well on the mend, a far cry from the previous week where I felt listless and would come close to passing out whenever I over-exerted myself. My feet were no longer swollen and my appetite had returned to normal and when I weighed myself during this period the scales read 54kg, a two kilogram gain.

Not bad, not bad at all.

But I was still shitting out blood and still considered to be anaemic, so despite the positive signs there remained a pall hanging over my head.
My parents both took the day off from work on the day that I had my long-awaited initial consultation with the gastroenterologist, the man who would be instrumental to my eventual recovery. His clinic was located in the heart of a mini central business district not far from home populated by business parks and company buildings. I’d assume that driving through this area during peak-hours would be horrendous, the perfect testing ground for car horns and a hot spot for road rage incidents.

My father accompanied me during that fifteen to twenty minute drive for my appointment. Dr. B’s clinic was on the second floor of a rather tall tower that housed other businesses, ranging from other healthcare centers to financial companies. As my father and I walked down a rather long hallway leading up to the clinic I kept my eye out for the nearest men’s room in case of an emergency while waiting for my session. Ever since I went through that unfortunate phase of my pre-hospitalized suffering it had become a habit for me to find the nearest restroom in case I was attacked by an uncontrollable need to empty my bowels. I found it near the exit.

My father immediately took a seat in the waiting room while I approached the receptionist and confirmed my attendance. She also gave me a couple of forms to complete that involved questions regarding my personal details and health history. The clinic was clean and well-lit and the lady behind the front desk was approachable and laid-back. Dr. B sure did know how to pick his staff.
“Ok, please take a seat in the waiting room and fill out that form, Dr. B will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you.”
I took a seat next to my father in the waiting room, a small room with a multi-colored carpet covering the floor and a big screen TV mounted on the wall at the front of the room showing the morning news. There was also a small space in the back corner for children to play and color in pictures and some of their artworks were on display in the back wall.
After about ten minutes of waiting, shortly after I finished that questionnaire, I suddenly felt that dreaded urge again. Oh boy, I hope this won’t eat into my appointment, it would be two months of waiting down the drain if I missed my shot!
“I’ll be right back,” I told Pop before rushing out of the waiting room, down the hall and into the men’s room.
I did my business as quickly as I could before rushing back into the waiting room, hoping that I wouldn’t pass out as I was still anaemic and had lost more blood. Man, I’ll be glad to finally get a diagnosis for this damn thing.
“Are you ok?” asked Dad.
“Yeah. Did he call me?”
“He hasn’t come in yet.”
“Ok, cool.”
I didn’t have to wait long as Dr. B walked into the room three minutes later and called my name.

 Dr. B’s office was one befitting that of a man of his accomplishments. He sat behind a rather wide, dark, wooden desk piled with different cards with information on various bowel and digestive disorders, a model of the digestive system sat not too far from the patient’s side of the table and on the wall behind him hung the obligatory framed qualifications and awards. His computer and phone sat immediately in front of him and photos of his family and one of those ‘World’s Best Dad’ mugs were not too far away. Like his comrade Dr. G his office had a massive window with a great view outside, although I would say that the view outside his office was more grandiose than that of Dr. G’s. While Dr. G’s office overlooked an open green space, Dr. B’s office overlooked the landscape of a neighboring suburb, giving one a panoramic view of rooftops, roads, gardens, green hills and plains.

Damn, this guy is a real boss!

As for the man himself, he looked to be in his early to mid-forties, was of Middle-Eastern descent and had a slim build and a friendly face framed by a dark beard. He spoke in a relaxed and calming manner, the type who can put a nervous patient at ease.
“How are you today?” he asked.
“I’m good, thank you.”
“Ok, take a seat and let’s get right into it.”
I took a seat opposite him while my father took a seat on one of the guest’s chairs on the side of the room.
“So, what can I help you with?”
And from there I took a deep breath and recounted the past five months to Dr. B as best as I could, from the initial symptoms, then the brief moment of victory during the trip to Canada and Alaska before segueing over to the vengeful return of those symptoms and the descent into a very dark place that still hurts to talk about. I also informed him that I was anaemic and had undergone a blood transfusion during the past weekend and that I had suffered from the bout of the flu shortly before all hell broke loose.

Quite a journey, huh?

Dr. B listened intently as I spoke, remaining stoic for the most part but there appeared to be a look of confusion on his face. I guess my symptoms had a level of inconsistency to them. While I did feel the usual symptoms indicative of Inflammatory Bowel Disease and/or Irritable Bowel Syndrome he was somewhat mystified over the way my symptoms suddenly disappeared during those two weeks overseas. Also, any cramps that I felt only manifested during those couple of weeks while I was battling the flu and gradually eased, I never found myself in a situation where my stomach cramped badly in between sessions on the porcelain throne. Apparently most IBD / IBS patients complained of persistent, painful cramps that, at times, left them in so much pain that they were unable to move, as though they were continually being stabbed in the stomach. Me? I worked out and continued to teach at the Wing Chun Academy up until I became anaemic. I didn’t feel any pain unless I was sitting on the can. The bloody stools seemed to be the only consistent symptom that had plagued me.
“Right,” he finally replied calmly, masking any sense of feeling overwhelmed if such was the case, “how much blood do you think you are losing whenever you go?”
I recited to him the same line I told the nurse during my stay in the hospital.  “Not sure, but it can’t be much since I hear it dripping out rather than pouring out like a waterfall.”
“Is the blood separate from your stools?”
“I’m pretty sure it is,” I responded. Like I said in a previous post, the results mainly looked like red wine with bits of chocolate in them. The blood and stools appeared to be separate. Again, sorry to any sommeliers out there for the mental picture and an apology to chocolate lovers, too.
“Ok, so it’s only a bit of blood, is it?”
Here it comes, the denial; “Pretty sure it is, although a few drops can spread out and render the water in the bowl red so it looks as though a lot of blood was spilled.”
“I see.”
Man, I can’t believe he bought that shit. I guess he can only go by what I was saying since he never personally saw the aftermath.
“And did you feel any cramps when you weren’t in the toilet? Do you feel any cramps now?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Hmmmm……”
He then offered me a glimmer of hope that brightened up the overall mood in the room after having veered towards somewhere less cheery.
“Based on what you’ve told me there is a possibility that you could be afflicted by Inflammatory Bowel Disease, but if these symptoms worsened while you were ill and had tapered off slightly since then there might be a chance that the flu played a bigger role in the anaemia, the cramps and all that than anything in your bowels.”
He made sure to emphasize the word ‘might’. Still, that sounded pretty darn good to me!
“So it could be something less severe like haemorrhoids?”
“It’s a possibility that I wouldn’t completely rule out.”
Man, full credit to Dr. G for introducing me to this guy. He had an open mind and was willing even to explore all scenarios rather than jumping straight into the doom and gloom.

Dr. B then turned towards his computer and began typing away, making a booking for my colonoscopy.
“The only way we’ll be able to get an official diagnosis is through a colonoscopy,” he said, “let’s see which dates are available…..”
My father and I gave each other a thumbs up as he typed away. It may not be all that severe after all. Dr. B then turned his attention back towards us.
“Ok, I can book you in for this Monday or next Friday.”

 Damn, looks like this will actually be happening. Shit just got real!

In my mind I immediately decided to go with the later date. I finally wanted to get to the bottom of these symptoms (no pun intended) but I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to undergo such an invasive procedure. The thought of it still made me feel uneasy.
My father, however, had other ideas.
“Take the earlier date, Son,” he whispered towards me, “the sooner the better.”
He was right. I was still anaemic and delaying this could see me rushed straight back into the hospital and I was determined not to have to do a sequel of the events of the previous weekend.
“We’ll take the Monday option,” I sighed.

That’s four days from today. Oh boy……

Dr. B locked in the date on his computer before printing out some sheets for me that confirmed the date and also included some notes on what to expect before and after the procedure.
“Ok, you’re booked in for Monday morning,” said Dr. B, “you can still eat as normal for the rest of the day and tomorrow but come Saturday you will need to start preparing for the colonoscopy. The receptionist outside will give you a package that contains the formula you will need to drink in order to clean out your bowels as well as a list of what you can and cannot eat and drink during the cleansing process.”

Great. Another two days of restrictive eating.

“Ok,” I finally replied after wrapping my head around the fact that this thing was happening sooner than I thought.
“In the meantime, take it easy,” he added, “you’ll be alright.”
We stood up and my father and I shook hands with him to end the appointment.
“See you soon,” said Dr. B.
“Yep, see you then.”
Dr. B kindly escorted my father and I from his office and I lined up again behind the front desk while Dad waited outside. The receptionist was busy with an elderly couple with the wife inquiring about her own upcoming colonoscopy. After they had walked over to the waiting room I gave the receptionist my answers to the questionnaire that I filled out earlier and she gave me a box that contained sachets of the formula that would empty my bowels as well as a list of instructions on how to take them. Included was also a list of dietary do’s and don’ts that I had to adhere to and I read over that list during the drive home.

Oooohhhh hell no!!!

For a man that liked to keep himself in tip top shape it was difficult to read. Wholegrains, fruits and vegetables, typical staples of my diet, were out and for two days I had to subsist on white carbs, meat, liquids and not much else. You see, the dieat that I had to stick to prior to the colonoscopy was a low fiber one to keep my bowel calm as it was being prepped for the procedure.
Oh yeah, and since I was booked for Monday morning I was prohibited from eating solids from Sunday mid-day until after the procedure. I would have to subsist on the formula plus soups and liquids for the rest of the day. And during the hours before the surgery I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink, period. Not even a sip of water.
By the time I finished reading through that list I had the same look on my face as a man that had just been robbed of his whole life savings. This was a whole new level of bullshit that, though expected, I wasn’t prepared to accept.
“Don’t worry, son,” said Pops, “it’s only for a couple of days.”
He was right about that but I’d be lying if I said that it wasn’t a couple of days too many. But if this is what it was going to take to finally reveal the cause of my maladies over the past few months then so be it.

In the meantime, I had the rest of this day and the next to pig out on whatever I wanted before the special diet began. And I had every intention of making the most of those two days.