Letting it All Out

My parents seemed relieved that I was OK. I didn’t know why, because I wasn’t OK. They weren’t there last night. They didn’t have their asses wiped by a stranger.


I knew something was wrong. But what was I supposed to do? Besides, they were going to do tests, so my questions would certainly be answered anyway. So I let everyone else just tell me what to do and how to feel.

Everything was not OK. I was confused, but I didn’t say anything. And it’s not like me to hold my tongue. Not at all. But how could I bend the rules when I didn’t know what they were? It seemed like my parents understood how this whole hospital thing worked, and I felt comfortable in their adhering this weird code of conduct.

In order to do get a good look at the gastrointestinal, or G.I., tract, ideally everything not actually part of my body had to be cleaned out. And flushing your digestive system is the worst part of any test.

Still, I’m always amazed at how nurses and doctors can be so straight-faced and matter-of-fact about the whole thing. It doesn’t matter if it’s a posh G.I. clinic, a hospital outpatient procedure or even, this, my first inpatient experience. It’s all the same.

“You drink this until it’s gone.”

“It might be a little hard to get down, but just keep at it.”

“It’s very important or we can run the tests.”

I was so thirsty. I had IV fluids, but I wasn’t allowed to drink anything. Every hour or so I was allowed to suck on a wet washcloth.

So when a big cup was put in front of me and now I was asked to drink until it was gone, I didn’t think that sounded too bad. I’ve never been so wrong.

I was a smart kid. When I was told they had to make sure my digestive system was free and clear before putting me in front of some machine, how could I not understand what that meant?

I’ve done dozens and dozens of these tests over the years, so I don’t remember what the rocket fuel laxative of choice was, but I remember it was disgusting. I started to guzzle this nasty drink, and I started to gag.

“Oh, that happens sometimes,” the nurse said. “Just keep working on it.” I felt like I should apologize for nearly throwing up on myself.

It’s been the same for 15 years. I down some sort of super strong laxative concoction, try like hell to get the taste out of my mouth, and I wait for the “preps” to "prepare" me for the test.

Prepping is like having the flu or food poisoning- where something is not agreeing with your system and you feel like your intestines have all decided to make balloon animals out of themselves. The only way of releasing the pain is, of course, to head to the bathroom.

I was given some pain medication and I was able to go to and from the bathroom... with help from Dad or a nearby nurse. That doesn’t mean the embarrassment would end. This was just the beginning.

I was back and forth to the bathroom, letting it all out. Nurses and cleaning staff were constantly in and out of the room, and my parents were in the room the whole time. I was a self-conscious teenager doing something super gross surrounded by a group of adults totally unfazed by what was happening.

But what could I say?

“Dad, I feel anxious because the room stinks and it’s all my fault for listening to doctor’s instructions and drinking that terrible 'soda' and letting my insides pour into the toilet.”

But that’s how a kid feels. I feel sorry for the 17-year-old me sometimes. She didn’t know any better. She didn’t know how anything.

I wasn’t totally cleaned out when someone wearing blue scrubs and expensive running shoes walked into my room with authority, unhooked and re-hooked tubing, unlocked the wheels on my bed and rolled me out of the room.

He was just some guy whose whole job was wheeling people from their rooms to radiology or surgery or wherever. I don’t remember what he looked like. I just remember those fierce Nikes.

He didn’t say a word. Nobody said anything. It turns out a nurse told my parents I was getting an x-ray. Just a regular x-ray of my abdomen. This wasn’t actually the test. Nobody told me. It was so damn quiet all the time.

After a couple pictures with the x-ray machine, and I was on my way back to my room. Easy as that.

It was getting late into the afternoon by the time the doctor came to my room to tell me my x-ray looked normal, but that it was too late in the day to actually conduct a real test, so we’d all just wait until tomorrow.

My parents had gone home for a while. I was watching something mind-numbing on TV, and drifting in and out of sleep, but it was barely 5:00 p.m. As winter darkness crept into my room, the pain crept into my gut again.

Within minutes I was reliving last night all over again. Only this time the relieved words “it’s dark-colored” were replaced with the concerned words “it’s bright red.” Good thing I was in a hospital, or I might be dead.