What's a colonoscopy like?

Just like an old car, a person gets to a certain age when things start to show signs of wear. Wrinkles, grey hair, those cold mornings when it's hard to bend over far enough to put your socks on.

Today I had a colonoscopy. My doctor suggested it because of my age (approaching 50) and because my old man has had colon issues in the past. I wondered what it was like, but the instructions from my doctor were strictly clinical (insert tab A into slot B). I didn't learn much from my friends and colleagues because it seems most people are reluctant to talk about anything going up the arse. Except nurses. Nurses love to talk about anything and everything that has to do with the body. Especially at lunch. I like nurses.

Here's what happened. Yesterday at 8:00 a.m. I had to stop eating solids. I was allowed clear fluids so I survived the day sipping apple juice and whisky*. I also had to take drugs to get my bowels moving so that the house would be clean when company arrived the next day. My doc prescribed 20 mg of Dulcolax in the a.m. and then 2 tablespoons of Milk of Magnesia per hour until the bottle was gone. By the end of the night, it felt like I was peeing acid out my butt as my innards cleared themselves of the food I had consumed the day before. Vaseline is your friend when this happens. Use it liberally after each bowel movement to soothe and protect that tender tissue from the constant stream of partially digested stomach acid. Burning ring of fire indeed.

Hunger. I've never really been hungry before. Not like this. And after a while it wasn't so bad. Not pleasant, but not so bad either. In fact, we should probably all go hungry once in a while just to appreciate the abundant world we live in. I'm so lucky to have been born at this time in history in this place on our planet. What must it be like to go hungry for more than a day? To grow up hungry? To die from starvation? I had a patient recently who suffered a stroke that shorted out her swallowing circuits and because she had stated before that she didn't want any kind of tube feeding, she was allowed to starve to death. It took her six weeks to die with nothing to sustain her except IV fluids and opiates.

I was only hungry for one day and once the initial headache passed I was fine. I hunckered down in my Lay-Zed Boy chair (that's what we call them in Canada) with books and a movie and by this morning (24 hours without solid food) I felt pretty good. I've come to the conclusion that one day fasting is not REAL hunger. Six weeks is real hunger. Watching your child die from malnutrition. That's real hunger. I need to think more about my hunger. I'm getting pretty soft around the middle. I could probably do with a lower calorie diet. And I could probably do something to help those who are truly hungry.

I showed up at the hospital at my appointed time, no line ups, gave the distracted lady my ID and healthcare number (I'm also fortunate to have been born in a country with universal health care), and within minutes I was kissing my wife goodbye and stripping down to my black socks and a drafty gown to wait for the procedure. I had about 90 minutes to drowse, consider my almost public nudity under that nearly transparent gown, and listen to the conversations around me. The fellow in the next booth was in for a broncoscopy because his doctor had seen something suspicious on his chest x-ray. I could hear the fear in his voice: breathy and hoarse from non-stop coughing and years of smoking and tentative in the way he answered the nurse's questions about past surgeries and medications as if he was carefully completing a test, the result of which might influence whether he would live or die.

I also listened to the nurses chatting amongst themselves about banal things. How we spoil our kids nowadays with overloaded Easter baskets. "I used to get one chocolate bunny every Easter. That was it. No money, no DVDs, no clothing, just a big hollow bunny. Kids today are spoiled rotten." Another nurse talked about how her 4-year old daughter insisted on having her beautiful curls straightened out every morning before school and would cry bloody murder if she didn't get her way.

Eventually my turn with the doctor came. My IV was already in place. It stung a little going in and then I forgot it was there. Diane was the first one to introduce herself and chat a little as she rolled me to the endoscopy suite. It was cold in that room. Full blast air conditioning, sterile instruments, and a doctor who asked just the basic questions and otherwise studied a computer screen. A resident worked the scope. I asked the nurse to put the monitor by my eyes so I could watch the procedure. She said, "sure, if you can stay awake." Then she shot me up with Fentanyl for pain (Demerol is too hard to get these days), Buscopan to relax any muscle spasms, and a third drug that I don't remember. It was probably a med for calming the mind. I felt a little high almost instantly, but not at all drowsy. So I watched the show.

My innards are complicated looked at from the inside: pinkish flesh, some pooling of brackish yellow fluid, lots of folds and ridges, and a smooth shininess. I didn't feel much discomfort at the back door as the scope was inserted, but I did feel some poking around in my guts as it shoved itself around corners. I didn't see what the scope looked like, but it had a camera, lights, and a little grabber that reached out to snip off samples of tissue for analysis. If I was to imagine what the device looked like using movie images, the scope would be like the snaky eyeball thing that came down into the cellar looking for Tom Cruise and his daughter in War of the Worlds, but smaller. And the grabber was kind of like the scary snapping mouth thing that jumps out of the dripping jaws of the aliens in Ridley Scott's movie, Alien. But smaller and much less viscious. I'd love to have a look at the device. It must be beautiful in it's reliable, functional design. A great machine indeed.

And that was it. The anonymous resident pulled the scope out, wiped it with a rag for the next patient**, and the kind nurse rolled me out to recover from the drugs. Slam, bam, thank you ma'am.

I didn't really feel drowsy or sick after. 30 minutes and I was walking out the door on the arm of my dear wife. The half-hour wait was kind of fun because the doctor came and told me that he only saw the one polyp that he snipped out and an area of suspicious inflammation that he also took a sample of. He said I would hear from him in a couple weeks with results from the tissue sample tests. It's fun to hear that you don't have anything REALLY wrong with you, but it's more fun to be told that you have to push the gas out before you can go home. That's right, the doctor told me to fart. So I did. At first I tried to be discreet and pushed out some little brown mosquitos, but then (perhaps it was the medications lowering my inhibitions) I started to let her rip. I finally finished with a long juicy one that woke up my neighbor who was much more sedated that I. "What the hell," were his first words on waking.

And that was it. My dear wife took me to my favourite Vietnamese restaurant where I savoured every bite and then bought me a coffee. It didn't take much food to fill me up and I slept most of the two-hour drive home.

I kind of wish the drugs were better.

*Not true, I didn't drink any whisky.
**Also not true, they dipped the device in a big bottle of blue chemicals*** like they use with combs at the barber shop.
***The last lie of this story. I have no idea how they clean the scope between patients.

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Slowly, slowly!

March 23, 2013

O snail
Climb Mount Fuji,
But slowly, slowly!

-Kobayashi Issa

The robin and the roaring engine

Why don't my kids need naps? Once they are up for the day they stay up until they are forced/coerced/bribed to go to bed. Not me. I love a good Saturday afternoon nap. Today, I slept so deeply in my big brown chair, that I woke up drooling. I dreamt I was walking around with my eyes closed, that is I couldn't open them, but no one around me seemed to notice or care. I was carrying on my daily routine with my eyes closed (Hello metaphor!). Next in my dream I was trying to rinse my mouth out with water because my tongue had stopped working and of course, I woke up drooling.

While I was unconscious, my children told me that they watched old Scooby Doo episodes on a retro cartoon station (Really? We need to keep seeing them?), they played Jenga (I remember crashing blocks), they read comics, and they scorffed down one of the baguettes I had made for supper (I'm glad they like my baking).

What could I have done in two hours? Did I really need all that sleep? Could I have finished the boring book I have on improving learning by incorporating body movement and moved on to the novel I'd much rather be reading? Could I have written this blog and then started fixing a short story that's been sitting around for months? Could I have taken worn the belts off my snow blower and run down to Canadian Tire to buy new ones? There are 10,000 things I could have done!

When I finally woke and wiped the spit from my beard, the boys were watching mud bogging on TV. In this "sport," a redneck man or woman buys a truck, puts a tall suspension on it, fat tires, a snorkel for the air intake, and then takes turns racing full throttle through a mud bog to see who will make it through fastest. Tires spin, mud flies, drunks slip on muddy inclines as they walk into the bush for a pee (yes, that part was televised), and those unmuffled engines roar like, like ... well, like unrestrained 8-cylinder American engines -- there is no simile for that! It's like trying to say what a robin is like. A robin is like a robin.

My inner 12-year old still loves the sound of a loud engine roaring fossil fuels through narrow, unbaffled pipes into the atmosphere. I wish I still had the energy and will to stay awake like my 12-year old self did when all that mattered was growing up so I could have my own jacked-up pickup truck. I want to spin my tires, pee in the bush, and drive home with so much mud on my metaphysical car that you can't tell what colour it is. And I want to shout and roar like a souped-up American V8, sending my voice up into the endless, blue empty sky.

Yeah, that's what I want.

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How do you keep track of the blogs you follow?

How do you keep track of the blogs you follow? I've been using google reader, but that will be discontinued in June. Not sure what I should switch too...

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Supported communication

Supported communication is a method of helping a person with aphasia better understand what they here and have a chance at expressing what they want. (Aphasia is a loss of ability to understand and/or express oneself because of damage to the language centers of the the brain.)

One way we can support someone with aphasia is by writing keywords for them to read as they listen to us talk. Sometimes if you can see what you hear (the important bits anyway) you can understand better. I've experienced this watching French movies with French subtitles. I can't understand by listening alone, but if I can read and listen, my comprehension soars.

I was explaining this to Barb the other day. Her husband, 51, had a doozy of a stroke last month and now has trouble with talking and listening. He'll ramble on endlessly in a somewhat non-nonsensical way without knowing what he is saying does not make sense. He can't hear himself so he can't fix it.

As an interesting aside, this man has damage to the part of brain that coordinates  body movement (cerebellum). Only he has no motor difficulties. His hands, arms, legs all work fine. I'm starting to appreciate how much the cerebellum does to help us coordinate our thinking and language through sub-conscious self-monitoring.

The example I used to explain supported communication to Barb was telling someone about how their CAT had to go to the VET because it was SICK. Writing those keywords can help them focus on what you are saying. Then I went on with a spontaneous story about how the cat was too sick to save without expensive treatment and had to be put to sleep. I'm not sure why that story came at that time.

15 minutes later, Barb came to my office to tell me she was freaking out because her husband's dog got sick two days before and had to go to the vet. Just like my fictional cat, the dog (Trinity) was too sick to be kept alive without suffering so she was put to sleep.

Barb and I paused for a moment wondering how I came up with that story at that time and then she told me how she was so afraid to tell her husband, poor man stuck in the hospital recovering from a stroke, that his dog had died without him. She didn't know how he would react and was caught between wanting to spare him the news and thinking that he would want to know.

I went with her to tell her husband the bad news. I was supporting her communication with my presence I suppose. He had no trouble understanding everything she said, speaking volumes about the hidden layers of communication that we share without words. She told him the sad news, he responded calmly and ended up soothing her because the telling upset her so much. And it was all accomplished with touch, eye contact, and the look of a saint on his face.

There's so much more than just words when we allow ourselves to connect to each other, when we see through the illusion of isolation. Even through the distance of time and space as in a novel, words are just the surface of something much deeper.

"we are so, so much more than this physical body and mind, so much more than the limited perceptions of our senses, that we are something much greater than the separate isolated, vulnerable being that we deem ourselves to be." - Rev. Alicia, Field of Merit Blog. 

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Golden calf for sale

The void isn't all that scary. It is filled with compassion.

In church today we discussed (others discussed, I listened) how the Israelites in Exodus got into trouble because they wanted a golden calf to worship while they were waiting for Moses to come back. They were tired of waiting and wanted something to worship. They wanted to feel like they were doing something instead of feeling like they were suffering for no good reason.

The first commandment is "thou shalt have no other gods." Here's my take: false idols are beliefs that take you away from the truth. The truth? I'm trying to define this for myself. God? Nirvana? My true self? I'm getting caught up in language and well over my head in this area of comparative theology.

Leaving  definition of "truth" aside, what takes me away from it? My beliefs: if only I had enough money I would be happy. If only I could buy the things I want RIGHT NOW I would have peace. If only I didn't have debt I would be happy. The void I fear threatens me and I must escape it. These are some of my major idols. I have minor idols too: that bag of chips I have when I watch TV, the whisky I crave after a hard day at work, a nice pair of shoes, ... all of these (there are many more) make me feel good. Hurt + comfort (minor idol) = peace, but it's only a temporary peace. That is what I'm learning from this money crisis I've created for myself. I can't buy the things that make me feel better, these false idols, so I have no choice but to face the void that I've been using material pleasure to avoid. It's natural to want to avoid discomfort and chase after pleasure. It's human. It's also the cycle that keeps us trapped (according to the Buddha) in this life of suffering.

I'm starting to find out what happens when I don't have my comforts. When I face the void, this thing, this state I can't define. I may be getting to a point where I can choose not to avoid my fears (the void) and instead find a way to accept them. Live life as it is.

The void isn't all that scary. It is filled with compassion.

Today's church conversation feels as if it was organized just for me. It gave me what I needed today and helped me make a connection between Christian theology and my Buddhist faith. DBS, you are the kind of friend I'm so grateful for. I want to be like you! You are a Bodhisattva today. I love the concept that my ego is crumbling. It hurts, but it means I'm getting somewhere that is beyond this self-induced suffering. Sometimes a wound has to be roughed up a little to let light and air into where it's festering. Pixie, it means a lot to know you experience everyday life the way I do, yet you still find reasons to laugh and make me laugh.

With this support and the endless patience I'm learning from my dear wife, I'm starting to feel like this suffering is worth it. Like it's marking a transition to a different phase of life.

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If you've got the money, honey, I've got the time

How come the things that are most interesting to me are not things I can bring up in cafeteria conversation?

"How's your day?"

"Not so good. I'm having a metaphysical crisis -- a crisis of identity. It seems to be over my largely unconscious beliefs about spending. Money drives me crazy."

"Interesting. Well. Look, I think I'll eat at my desk today. I've got a pile of email to sort through."

The topic of money is banal and easy to avoid. Do we all worry about money? Some of us are born with the ability to save (you are the types who leave the marshmallow on the table). Do these delayed gratificationers worry about money? Or is it the grasshoppers like myself who tend to live and spend spontaneously that worry most. Why did I buy that RV? How in the hell am I going to pay for it now?

More than 20 years ago, I was steaming wallpaper off the walls of my new apartment. I had just dropped off my lover a block away from her house so that her boyfriend wouldn't see us together. She told me then, that she couldn't see me anymore. She still loved her boyfriend and I was a mistake. I don't remember how long I stumbled around willing myself not to feel any pain, but when I ran the steam nozzle up and down the walls of that crumby old apartment, I cried. Not the kind of tears you wipe away when you hear a story like the boy who burned 80 percent of his body when he returned to his inferno house to save his baby sister. Tears for a story like that are sweet and they don't last. You wipe them away and then you go on to the next story or the commercial about the new Subaru.

The tears I cried in that empty apartment were wrenching. Involuntary. They came from an unknown place that felt like dying. I was afraid of them and tried to resist their flow, but I soon gave in and let them come with howling sobs until they were done. Then I got up off the floor and finished removing the wallpaper. The wall under the tattered dusty rose paper was the colour of robin eggs crushed at the bottom of a birdhouse. It was shiny, polished, and stained like an old tea cup. It was impervious to my grief and my longing. My failure.  My future felt empty. I was a driver in a highway car racing up an incline on a moonless night. As I approached the crest, I had a primal kind of fear of not knowing what was on the other side in the dark. My headlights were pointing up and the road ahead of me disappeared into nothing but darkness. Was there a cliff? A sudden sharp curve? I hated the feeling of travelling alone into the unknown when all I want was to be loved by the one I loved.

My pain tonight feels like that. Like my heart is broken. Not by love, noble love, but by banal boring money.

I paid all my bills. I made the extra payment on my motorcycle loan. I socked away some cash for next summer's camping trip and next December's gift giving and there was nothing left. No money for a jaunt to the city or a movie or a burger. My boys played at home, watched TV, fingered their video games, and saw nothing new. Learned nothing new. I kept busy with chores and avoided them because I didn't like the feeling of watching them waste their time. We made it through the day. They are sleeping and I am trying to write. There will be church tomorrow morning. Then lunch. A book to read. A nap. More TV and then back to work.

Sacrificing my immediate spending desires is like facing the void over the crest of the hill. It does not return any echo of what I want. It is black nothing. My eyes ache from gazing into it as if the darkness sucks the sights I have already seen from my brain like an occipital lobe stroke. It is taking my life from me second by second as I try to see what I want to see instead of the black nothing. Wanting is the problem said the Buddha. His first noble truth says that all humans suffer in this life and the second noble truth says that we cause our own suffering because we crave.  I suffer tonight because I want what I cannot have. It is the wanting that causes my suffering, not the object of my wanting or the story I create about something outside my control that causes me to want. When I offered my love those many years ago and received rejection in return, I suffered. Now I only want to rent a movie or drive into the city for some shopping or buy a new bottle of scotch but I can't. My pay cheque and my past choices to buy expensive toys (to satisfy my craving) are rejecting me. Add to this the pressure to pay for piano lessons, replace worn out shoes, the school ski trip, the karate tournament next month, and my sweet son's eighth birthday next month and the pain, the frustration, feels the same. I can't satisfy my craving to consume and to be entertained and to avoid facing the void because I have to support my growing family. I have to be responsible and pay back the money I borrowed. I am caught without my armour. My armour protects me. It makes me feel better. My armour is escape (movies & theatre). It is soothing (whisky and music). It takes me anywhere but here facing the unknown alone.

My dear wife of 18 years just sent me a note on my phone to tell me that she is bringing me bubble tea. Her uncomplicated love for me reminds me that I don't think about the woman who broke my heart way back when. Somewhere along the path, I've accepted my loss and found another love, a lasting one. If I can do that, then maybe I can embrace my craving heart and give up my fear of the void. Maybe I can learn to live on this strict budget, not give in to indulgences, pay my debts, and support my family with a free and balanced heart. If I do that, then maybe I can give up this unwholesome, yet natural desire the Buddha talked about

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All the meditation is driving me crazy

My meditation has taken a turn for the worse. I was hoping for theta-wave bliss, understanding, and maybe some self-control, but it turns out my daily zazen is fraught with visits from devils. Anger. Confusion. Doubt. Fear. All have become my sitting partners. I welcome them most to the time and occasionally I see that they are my old friends. We've been through a lot together.

So together we sit and try not to try too hard. Let's see what happens next.

Self-portrait with crazy straw, February 2013

Some light bowling

Winter light, January 2013

Catch the sunset, February 2013

Let's try that again, February 2013

Waiting for the results, February 2013

Endless winter

Release the light within, February 2013

Never buy a house in the winter, February 2013

I dare you to lick it, February 2013

Pull me some spring, February 2013