NONFICTION    

I eat Kale, watch my wine intake  -   photo by Weebly.com                                    

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Why I Stopped Eating Bacon
by  Vera Jacobson

​That morning in late September, the colonoscopy pre-screen test returned positive. Calling upon my advanced denial skill strategy, I thought, "Yes, I am positive. Yes, I pride myself on being a lifelong, disciplined-positive person.” I promptly dismissed the test results. Denial works.
 
It was not until my doctor's medical assistant called me on the phone, directly telling me that I needed a colonoscopy procedure because I had a positive test. I then began to accept that the word positive was, for the first time in my life, a uniquely awful word for me.
 
Scheduling my first-ever colonoscopy was not a priority for me. I am a very healthy person. I don’t smoke, I am a daily exerciser, eat Kale, watch my wine intake, and think good thoughts. I probably had some minor situation in my sewage area. The stories about the nastiness of this procedure were not precisely motivating me. One finds excuses for delaying something as unpleasant as this seemed. Some of my readily accessible reasons were my daughter's upcoming birthday, the approaching holidays, and the need to wash my car. I finally chose December first to submit to the nasty procedure. After all, I was in no hurry because I am a healthy human.
 
The instructions required to perform the uncomfortable and disgusting set of tasks take three days for that one day. The instructions included eating only soft, squishy foods, a liquid-only diet, culminating in drinking some inferior-tasting salty, slimy watery liquid every fifteen minutes within a two-hour window. The result of that experience is not for prime-time sharing, but I can tell you I was awake all night with my body under siege. The morning of the test, I again was directed to perform another unpleasant and uncivilized "cleanse," making my insides shiny and clean for the procedure. My body was confused. Think garden hose meets the urgency of a mother in the last stage of labor, meets uncivilized, undignified body sounds, smells, sights, and touch.
 
My best friend of six decades, Sue, is a germaphobe. She claims she "sees" the germs. She is a close replica of the loveable, cherub-faced maid from Beauty and The Beast. Sue, aka Mrs. Potts, laughed loudly and loved. She volunteered to drive me to the hospital during Covid surges. I was in good hands.
 
Sue's influence tapped into my already healthy phobic mental worldview, adding germophobe to my lengthy phobia list. After consulting with her, I chose clothes I could burn after going to the hospital, Covid Central. Furthering that ugly image, I had to let go of my normal appearance. The instructions said no jewelry, makeup, or perfume. I was not familiar with this costume. Summoning up my courage, we waited in the waiting room for over an hour. Waited and waited and waited. Sitting there, one could feel the Covid Cooties crawling on my skin. I felt like a captured reptile stewing in a pot of boiling Covid germs only to be eaten alive by some Giant. 

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​Everyone had come and gone, and I felt like a loser begging for them to ram something up my derriere in hopes of finding that one bad hemorrhoid. Finally, after pestering the front desk staff tenaciously, they called my name.
 
Hooray! Now at least I was with my Colonoscopy People, away from the other pitiful reptiles awaiting their fate to be eaten alive. The inside staff was busily buzzing about me, prepping me for the procedure. I was happy to be in their care, transferring my responsibility to them. I did not want to worry about all the obnoxious liquids I had self-administered and dodging all those rampant, toxic covid germs. They were in charge. They were the experts. They knew what they were doing. Or did they?
 
As they wheeled me into the procedure room, I adopted my friendly persona, making jokes and remaining open. No one greeted me. The chubby girl driving my gurney filled the air with silly, trivial chatter. My anxiety began to grow. Why weren't they explaining the procedure to me? The glum male technician commanded me to kneel and put my butt in the air, and the small woman seated at her computer ignored me. No one identified themselves. I firmly told the male commander, “No," to his suggested position. Irritated, he offered me a second position; turn on my right side and expose my butt while he fussed around and got his torture tools ready. The panic was now in my mouth, giving me that metallic taste. Trying to own some ounce of control, I promptly covered my nakedness with that raggedy hospital gown no one ever wants to wear.
 
The small woman finally got off her computer and came over to me, introducing herself as the "doctor." Who knew? When did everyone get so young and so ill-mannered? Did she never take a course in bedside manner? Did she not know how out of control patients might feel in this vulnerable position? Was this her first colonoscopy?
 
I jokingly replied, “Isn’t it time for my cocktail?”
 
“In a bit” was her humorless response.
 
More rattling of equipment, injecting something into my arm, and I was off to slumber through the torture. Or so I thought.
 
Time disappears when one is sedated and ceases to exist. I awoke. They were "working on me." I realized I needed to tell them. I didn't want to talk.  Yet my mind was crystal clear, and they needed to know. I was awake, for God's sake. Put me back under. I ordered my mouth to speak.
 
“Hello," I began. "I am awake. I can feel what you’re doing to me. Stop that," I managed to convey.
 
I thought that would be enough, and they would send me back to that blissful state where I didn't exist. Nope, they didn't.

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​“Are you in pain?” They asked.
 
I replied, “Stop it.” Why did I have to discuss my current awake state with them? Panic set in. Maybe I was abducted by Ewoks from another planet.
 
“What does it feel like?” they asked.
 
"What do you think it feels like, you nitwit." I thought. How could I tell them it felt like an ice-cream scooper jammed up my ass searching for gold? I had watched enough medical dramas to know when a patient wakes up in the middle of a procedure; they were immediately given another dose sending them off to unconsciousness. I must be with aliens.  
 
Responding to them in hopes they would understand, I feebly replied, “You are making me feel like I have to fart (for lack of the professional word for fart). I don't like it.”
 
“So, fart,” was the response.
 
Is there a woman in the world that would be ok with that answer?
 
“Nooooo, I don't want to."
 
And out I went again, gratefully losing consciousness.
 
On that one day, that bright, shiny, inappropriate sunny day for December, my life changed forever. As they attempted to wake me up, I heard the words you never want to hear.
 
"You have cancer."

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The funny thing about shock is it is not funny at all. It is a state of being where one is frozen—not frozen like shivering cold but frozen, unable to think or feel. I could not process the impossible word cancer at all. I could not reach it. I was frozen. Some people describe that state as "numb.” Numb in your feelings? I am not sure. The funny thing was I did not know I was in a state of shock.
 
I trusted my safety to the professionals who were to perform a pretty unpleasant procedure on my body. Waking up in the middle of a colonoscopy was terrible and disgusting, evoking victim-like feelings. Conversing with my torturers was over-the-top horrible. Begging them to stop was simply wrong. As my mind began to clear, I could think again. I slowly turned to the word that needed my attention, Cancer—The Big C—this one word that would dominate my life. ​

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My learning was steep; appearing in front of my eyes was a brand-new lexicon, a plethora of words I needed to learn—fast:  Stoma, Wide Bore MRI, robotics, Nurse Navigator, and oncologist, to name a few. I soon adopted a practical Covid and Cancer attitude; if one doesn’t kill you, the other will.
 
I was eager for my appointment with my oncologist so I could finally get some answers to the ridiculous number of questions I had generated. Dr. S was handsome, gentle, and with an open sense of humor. The kind of man you would want in your book club. Or on your Match.com page. How does the throaty voice of Liam Neeson with the quiet warmth of George Clooney's eyes sound? Yes, my oncologist was gorgeous.
 
I explained to him that I was anxious, and this diagnosis was not helping my nerves. He listened thoughtfully and suggested that perhaps I should smoke a little weed for my nerves which is better than wine for colon cancer patients. I knew I liked this guy.
 
"How did I get cancer? I exercise, eat Kale, and think good thoughts." I offered. "Is this genetic?”
 
The oncologist soberly replied, "Unfortunately, if you were in your forties or even your fifties, we might suspect that. But since you are of ‘the’ age, it usually is not."
 
"Right. Then how did this happen to healthy, wholesome me?"
 
"As we age," he awkwardly replied, "sometimes the cells forget how to replicate themselves properly. They start multiplying quicker, causing chaos, and cancer can form,” using his most calm and learned tone.
 
"What? Am I to understand that my cells 'forget' how to divide properly because they are old? Do my colon cells have memory loss? Are they demented?" I surprisedly asked.
 
“Yes, exactly,” my kind oncologist replied.
 
I took a moment to think.
 
“Oh, I understand,” I quipped, “I have a dumb ass.” 

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​The operating room "theatre" looked like a plain, practical storage room with many shiny chrome parts and supplies. As they rattled off all the upcoming events they planned to perform on my body, they silently put the oxygen mask on my face. The anesthesiologist spoke to me, "Ok, all done.” That was quick. The surgery lasted five hours, carefully carving out one foot of my colon. The recovery room was next. My mind went somewhere else.
 
Drugs altered the rest of my four-day stay. I was there, and yet I wasn't. I was learning to eat foods again and not wanting to. My surgeon had approved me to stay longer, but Covid was surging and creeping onto my floor. Hell no! The patient next door to me was labeled "PUI," which stands for "Patient Under Investigation." That must mean either a spy was next door, or a Covid patient. I decided it was the latter and thought, Oh, double hell no! I want out.
 
Home to warmth and a fireplace blazing, exhausted that Friday night, I curled up into my clean bed with my little dog Peter and no nurses to invade my safe sleep.
 
The lab report popped on my computer screen on that one day, a sunny Sunday, the last day of January. The lab report would determine my life and my future. With Sue's patient insistence, I opened the message:
           
"Great news on the pathology—it is just Stage I Cancer. Everything is removed with clear margins. The tumor was 1.9 cm in size, and all the lymph nodes were negative for cancer. This is great. You do not need any chemotherapy or radiation."
 
I never knew the words “clear margins” could produce such joy. Cancer gone. I was clean. I will heal.
 
According to the Mayo Clinic, “colon cancer usually begins as benign polyps, which may not cause any symptoms.” According to the American Cancer Society, “a polyp can take as many as 10 to 15 years to develop into cancer. With screening, doctors can find and remove polyps before they have the chance to turn into cancer.” I’m here to tell you that it is true.
 
A wise refrigerator magnet once told me, "If You Are in Hell, Keep on Going." Despite my uncomfortable, messy, and downright scary experiences, I'd do it all again. The screening and the colonoscopy saved my life, and because they caught it early and got it all, I was spared from chemo and radiation treatment. I feel like the luckiest woman alive, and you can be sure I've changed my lifestyle.
 
Now I don’t eat bacon, hot dogs, or mortadella; red meat, not so much; wine minimally. Trade-offs do exist. I like stories that end with a good outcome, don’t you?

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​Dr. Vera Jacobson was a teacher and administrator for 30 years. She is happily writing short stories, watercoloring, and doing pencil sketching. If she is not at home, you would probably find her sailing on the San Francisco Bay. She lives in Brisbane with her dog, Peter.

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