Rites of Passage

When polyps show up during her husband's colonoscopy, Suzanne Roberts earns an unofficial MD in proctology from Google University.

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My husband told me not to tell anyone about the five lesions inside his colon. I assured him I had only mentioned it to a couple of people because I was worried.

When we got the results, I texted my people to tell them Tom’s polyps were benign. I was happy to share the good news with my friends. If the results had come back indicating cancer, those would have been the people I needed around me.

Until recently, I didn’t know one of the rites of passage of middle age included a passage up the rear with a small camera on a wire. And people like my husband don’t talk about these things; he is midwestern-nice, which means you don’t bring up things like alcoholism, abortion, infidelity, and failed marriages. Unfortunately for him, he married a writer, and these are my top subjects. You also don’t discuss my newest topics: colonoscopies and polyps.

Until recently, I didn’t know one of the rites of passage of middle age included a passage up the rear with a small camera on a wire. And people like my husband don’t talk about these things…

When I admitted to him how many people I had told about his polyps, my usually calm husband became upset. “You didn’t really tell twelve people,” he said.

You know how your dog looks down and away when you come home to find shit on the carpet and ask, “Who did this?” Well, that’s the tactic I used, the one that says, “Who me? I don’t know who messed up the carpet. But can I have a treat?”

Tom said, “You can tell anyone what you want about you, but don’t talk about me. You need to have some boundaries.”

“But this was about me too,” I said. “I was worried about you. Where’s the boundary?”

“My body is a boundary,” he said, and he pointed at himself, as if it might be unclear where I ended and he began.

My response to being told not to tell anyone something is to tell everyone, so I said to Tom, “Sure. okay.”

When I admitted to him how many people I had told about his polyps, my usually calm husband became upset. “You didn’t really tell twelve people,” he said.

But here’s the thing: it feels like it’s my business—the inside of my husband’s butt—because I was with him all night while he sat on the toilet after drinking the super-laxative, and then I woke at the break of dawn to get him to the hospital. I waited there so I could drive his silly drugged-up ass home.

And because I’m the worrier in the family, when things were taking longer than they I thought they should, I did what I do best: imagine the worst.

My growing concern was interrupted by an actual situation near the elevators. A woman—maybe someone who was also drugged and had escaped the colonoscopy assembly line—started screaming and yelling. I was afraid it was Tom, so I went to investigate. Just as I got there, a woman lifted her hospital gown and peed on the elevator floor. The doors closed on her, mid-pee. I went back to the couches in the nearby lobby, but I soon heard the Code Gray. I imagined the security guards descending on her somewhere on the floors below. Who knew there would be so much excitement in the butt-scoping ward?

Things quieted down, and my husband finally wheeled by. When he saw me in the waiting room, he gave a wistful little wave. I followed him into the curtained room. A hospital administrator soon came by to ask him if there was anything they could do to improve his experience. “As a matter of fact,” he said, still under the influence of the fentanyl and midazolam cocktail, “You could warm up the lube before you put it up my ass.”

But here’s the thing: it feels like it’s my business—the inside of my husband’s butt—because I was with him all night while he sat on the toilet after drinking the super-laxative, and then I woke at the break of dawn to get him to the hospital. I waited there so I could drive his silly drugged-up ass home.

She said there was nothing she could do about that. I wondered if she was bored at work and asked her patients questions while they were drugged to add a little pizzazz to her day. It wasn’t a terrible strategy for a guaranteed laugh, and I thought about how some days at my job teaching freshman composition, I used similar strategies, though the students had drugged themselves.

Then the doctor, who had a tiny mustache, hair greased back to hide a bald spot, and a very long face—a man who looked exactly like someone who scoped buttholes all day—came in. He told us there were five polyps. He pointed to where they were on his own body. And then he said, “The trouble is they are flat.”

“Flat?” I asked, thinking I had misheard him.

“Yes, they need to go to pathology. And if they’re fine, we’ll see you in another three years.” With that he turned on the heel of his expensive shoes and disappeared behind the curtain. I made a joke about the Wizard of Ass and then did the thing you should only do if you want to scare the hell out of yourself: I googled.

I learned the flat things in my husband’s colon were called sessile polyps. I also found out they are either precancer or else they are cancer. The doctor didn’t tell us how big they were or what he thought, so I asked the nurse. She responded to me by handing me pictures of my husband’s colon. The lesions looked like canker sores, and because of the magnification, they seemed giant.

Google told me the larger the sessile polyps were, the more likely they were cancerous. I asked the nurse, “How big are these?” She told us to ask the doctor, but he never reappeared.

When I was young, I swore I’d never be one of those old people who talks about hot flashes or my colon—or in this case, my husband’s colon. But then you find yourself middle-aged with not only hot flashes but rage flashes, too, which barrel down the track like a runaway train, and you can’t help but mention it.

I hadn’t yet heard of anyone having polyps in the colon, but truth be told, I had never asked anyone either. The parts of our bodies that betray our animal natures and remind us of our animal bodies, the locations of procreation and excretion, are off-limit topics in polite conversation. We deny the most natural parts of ourselves—our hunger or desires, our vulnerabilities and frailties, and even our grief.

And maybe polyp talk is common after 50. When I was young, I swore I’d never be one of those old people who talks about hot flashes or my colon—or in this case, my husband’s colon. But then you find yourself middle-aged with not only hot flashes but rage flashes, too, which barrel down the track like a runaway train, and you can’t help but mention it. When you think your car seat or, worse, your plane seat is on actual fire, it’s hard not to say something, though in the case of the airplane, it might unsettle your seatmates. I know this from experience.

And so it goes with the colon, that five-foot-long miracle that reabsorbs water and micronutrients, stores waste, and is home to the trillions of bacteria making up our microbiome.

While we waited the ten days for the pathology to come back, I asked my friend Brenda if she had ever had a colonoscopy. “Oh yeah,” she said. “I’ve had a couple.”

“But you’re only 54. Why have you had more than one?”

“They found some stuff.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. But they took them off, and the next one was fine.”

“Like polyps.”

“I guess so,” she said.

“Were they flat, or did they have stalks?” I asked and then added, “The ones with stalks look like little mushrooms.” I was premed as an undergraduate, but now I had an MD in proctology (now known as colorectal surgery) from the University of Google.

The parts of our bodies that betray our animal natures and remind us of our animal bodies, the locations of procreation and excretion, are off-limit topics in polite conversation.

Brenda told me she didn’t know, and it was clear she didn’t care whether the things in her colon looked like mushrooms or not. I don’t understand people like this. I mean, if there’s something blooming inside your colon, wouldn’t you want to know what kind of vegetable it resembled? Nonetheless, I felt better, knowing someone else I knew had had polyps. I wondered why I never knew this before about Brenda but then realized not everyone tells her twelve closest friends about her polyps. My husband certainly didn’t.

I continued my medical studies at Google University. I learned that 25 percent of all colonoscopies find polyps. I also learned there are different kinds, some carrying a higher risk of cancer than others. To my husband’s chagrin, I also learned the staples of his diet—red meat and beer—contribute to them. But the doctor hadn’t said a word to him about any of the risk factors, nor did he mention that vitamin D and calcium might help prevent them; this is something people under 50 should clearly know.

I then wrote to my former dissertation advisor (I ended up with a doctorate in literature, not medicine, which might be obvious by now). I knew she’d had colon cancer but had never heard the details. She wrote back and told me to call her, so I did.

Like Brenda, she’s a no-nonsense woman, and she said, “Even if it’s cancer, it’s no big deal. They just snip-snip-snip and you’re fine. The only ill effect is if I eat a rich French dinner, I have diarrhea, but sometimes it’s worth it, but that’s probably too much information.” I assured her that was exactly the kind of information I was after. “And besides,” my advisor continued, “lots of people have polyps and they never turn into cancer.”

I learned that 25 percent of all colonoscopies find polyps. I also learned there are different kinds, some carrying a higher risk of cancer than others. To my husband’s chagrin, I also learned the staples of his diet—red meat and beer—contribute to them.

I knew that many people died of colon cancer, but I preferred to hang onto every word my dissertation advisor had said, even if she, too, was an expert in Victorian literature and not medicine.

I told Tom that more than anything else, it was these conversations that allowed me not to panic while we waited for the results. “As long as you don’t write about it,” he said.

I looked up from the computer, at the beginnings of this very story, and I nodded.

But of course, years later, I told Tom I had written about him, and he said, “I don’t like this at all. It makes you sound like an asshole for not caring what I think.”

I laughed, “Asshole! That’s funny,” but Tom didn’t laugh, so I asked, “What would you like me to do about it?” I didn’t tell him I didn’t care if I sound like an asshole because sometimes I am an asshole. He already knows that.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s your story. Write another few sentences showing I’ve read it and am fine with you writing it.”

I knew he would come around, as he often did.  “Hey,” I said, “aren’t you due for another colonoscopy soon?” Maybe that will give me more material, something more to say about you and your butt?”

“You really are an asshole,” Tom said. This time we both laughed.

And when Tom’s next colonoscopy came around, he would not allow me to come into the hospital with him.