Praise the Colorectal Surgeon

My sister-in-law sent me a hilarious video clip of a song called "Working Where The Sun Don't Shine". The song is written and performed by Canadian musical comedy duo Bowser & Blue. This song was first heard on CBC Radio's "Madly Off in All Directions" in 1997 and apparently has become famous in many surgical circles, including the American College of Colorectal Surgeons.

You can find the clip here - I think that this performance is from Montreal's "Just for Laughs" Festival. The lyrics are reproduced below:

Working Where The Sun Don't Shine
(The Colorectal Surgeon's Song)

We praise the colorectal surgeon
Misunderstood and much maligned
Slaving away in the heart of darkness
Working where the sun don't shine
Respect the colorectal surgeon
It's a calling few would crave
Lift up your hands and join us
Let's all do the finger wave

When it comes to spreading joy
There are many techniques
Some spread joy to the world
And others just spread cheeks
Some may think the cardiologist
Is their best friend
But the colorectal surgeon knows...
He'll get you in the end!

Why be a colorectal surgeon?
It's one of those mysterious things.
Is it because in that profession
There are always openings?
When I first met a colorectal surgeon
He did not quite understand;
I said, "Hey nice to meet you
But do you mind? We don't shake hands."

He sailed right through medical school
Because he was a whiz
Oh but he never thought of psychology
Though he read passages.
A doctor he wanted to be
For golf he loved to play,
But this is not quite what he meant...
By eighteen holes a day!

Praise the colorectal surgeon
Misunderstood and much maligned
Slaving away in the heart of darkness
Working where the sun don't shine!

The colorectal surgeon, now forever immortalized in song. Deserved praise indeed.

I'll take a CAT scan, thanks

I went in for the CT (CAT) scan this morning to have the pelvic pouch checked out further, given the leak situation discovered last week. I had one last year, sometime in June or July, so I had a good idea of what to expect. If you've never had one done before, click here for a great, albeit clinical, explanation of the procedure. Clinical explanation not good enough for you? All right, here's how it really went down today.

So I arrive at the diagnostic centre at the hospital about 1 hour before the actual test is scheduled to begin. The nurse leads me to a small room, where I am told to take off all my clothes except for socks and shoes, and put on the standard issue blue hospital gown, open to the back. I realise too late that I have forgotten to shave my legs, but I shrug it off as I figure everyone will be too distracted with how sexy I look in my gown to notice the virtual forestation growing from my knees down.

I then proceed to a waiting area to have an IV tube inserted into my arm. The IV is so that the radiologist can inject contrast solution into your vein in order to get clearer images of your insides. Last time, I also had to drink a large cup of the contrast solution so that the radiologist could get a better view of my intestinal tract, which is of course the basis of my ulcerative colitis. Alas, no such luck this time: instead of drinking the contrast solution, I had to have it introduced through the back end. Always a pleasure. And unfortunately (fortunately?) it was a familiar process, given that I had undergone a similar procedure last Monday.

So there I am, lying on the table, feet pointed towards the CT machine, which looks a bit like a giant donut, when the radiology resident comes to talk to me about the testing procedure. Fortunately, he reminds me of Dr. Luka Kovac from ER, who I think is achingly attractive. Unfortunately, he's also the guy who's going to insert the catheter into my rear and pump me full of contrast fluid. Fantastic. I briefly wonder if he notices my unshaven legs and decide that he is clearly too busy putting jelly on the tube and instructing me to turn over on my right side to care.

Once everything is in place, I roll onto my back, raise my arms over my head like I'm diving into a pool of water, and hold my breath while the machine does its work. At one point, the contrast solution is forced into my veins, and I suddenly feel nauseaus and hot all over. This is a standard response to the contrast and nothing out of the ordinary. The test itself doesn't take long at all. It finishes just in time, as the catheter slips out and I end up doing a brisk waddle, cheeks clenched, to the bathroom to change back into my street clothes. The IV is then removed, and I am out of the door on my way home, again barely gathering the shreds of my dignity around me.

Seriously though, given the nature of ulcerative colitis, you would think that I would have no dignity left. And maybe that's true. Perhaps I am just deluding myself in thinking that there are still some tiny crumbs of it to be picked up and desperately held on to. But I'll take crumbs. Please.

No word on when I'll hear about the test results. Wish me luck.

Happy Heart Day

So I was scheduled for the third (and hopefully last) surgery next week to reconnect my insides and get rid of the delightful external baggage that I had been carrying around with me since last March. I attended the Pre-Admission Clinic, watched the slide show of "What to expect when you're in the hospital" (I felt like I could give the presentation myself), and had all the bloodwork and ECG readings done. I've been feeling pretty good, and I was anxious to have it all over and done with so that I could put it all behind me (literally, I guess).

The last step was to have a special test done, the exact name of which I can't remember. The procedure goes a little something like this: contrast dye is squirted up your rear-end using a thin rubber catheter, and the radiologist takes a number of xrays (I think) of the intestines from rectum to ileostomy. The point of the test is to see whether the new pelvic pouch that the surgeon created last November from the tail end of the small intestine has healed properly. Basically, the surgeon wants to ensure that there are no leaks, especially at the suture sites, which could jeopardize the effectiveness of the pouch or lead to further complications in the future.

So there I was on Monday morning, turned over on my left side, hospital gown pulled up, catheter in my bum, looking at the xrays (were they xrays?) on television screen. I'm straining to make out the images - I see the dye, which seems to be in a tubular squiggly shape, but of course I am not a doctor so I'm not really sure what it is that I am really looking at. About 10 minutes later, it was all over and I took my clothes and what was left of my dignity into the bathroom to change.

I received a call from my surgeon's office later that afternoon asking me to come in the next day to talk about the results. Apparently, there was a leak. A relatively large one. And the surgery next week will not be going ahead.

Where do I go from here? A CT scan has been ordered to take a better look at the area where the leak was found. Then it turns into a waiting game. In three months, I get the pleasure of undergoing the dye-in-the-bum test again. We will see if the leak will heal on its own, or whether further surgical intervention is required. My doctor thinks that I will have to wait at least six months for the third surgery. But it's to early to set a date. Or even a month. Fantastic.

While I am sure that no one really ever gets excited about having surgery, I was looking forward to just being done with it. The waiting makes me feel like I'm in suspended animation and that I can't really get on with life until all of the surgeries are over. On the other hand, I feel somewhat relieved, that I've been given a reprieve and that I should seize this as an opportunity to get healthier and to do the things I've been wanting to do but have been postponing until after the surgery. So today while I've had an incredible burst of energy, I also feel restless and easily frustrated. I guess I just have more to learn about being patient.

And yet, I remind myself of how far I've come. One year ago today, my husband and I "celebrated" our first Valentine's Day as a married couple in the hospital. I couldn't eat anything, I was going to the bathroom at least once every hour, pain and blood and diarrhea. And to really put the icing on the cake, I topped off this romantic evening by blacking out while taking a shower - luckily, my husband caught me before I knocked my head against the tile floor. I'm sure I was a sight to behold - lying in my husband's arms, naked on the floor of the shower stall, not able to control myself, my husband calling for help... it was the first of the lowest points. Any dignity I had completely fled from me that day.

Wow, I really owe him for that. Happy Heart Day.