Tag: health

Zero Hour: Colonoscopy

On By erintothemaxIn Commentary1 Comment

“She was tired of being embarrassed by the things her body did or did not do without her conscious input in the decision.” – emily m. danforth, “Plain Bad Heroines”

I wake up at 5 a.m. to mix the drink. I sit in the partial dark, drinking Suflave with a straw. A new timer goes off each 15 minutes, telling me to do it again. My stomach rumbles. Oh, how it rumbles.

Today is my first colonoscopy. Yes, I am sharing the story before it is complete. But I also believe that this piece of the experience — the prep, the intentionally making yourself sick — is the one that people are most afraid of. Including myself.

Could it be that most of our irrational fears begin in childhood? My intense fear of vomiting started in preschool. Mind you, I didn’t vomit myself. But I was wearing a snappy blue sweatsuit with satin planets sewn on. It was my favorite sweatsuit.

A girl named [REDACTED, IT’S SUCH A UNIQUE NAME THAT I WOULD DIE IF YOU RECOGNIZED YOURSELF HERE] and I were walking alongside the plastic bins that tame the beads and Duplos and shit. These were the final moments of my beloved sweatsuit. I believed it to be irreplaceable. That said, it probably came from J.C. Penney. I was neither in a position to understand this, nor to take myself shopping. To appreciate the fleeting and cyclical nature of possessions was above my skillset. This is fine. I was young. So young.

In a moment I believed to be without warning, [REDACTED] proceeded to vomit all over me.

This was the moment when my fear of throwing up locked in. I don’t know how to explain it, but I loved my sweatsuit with the satin planets. It was simultaneously comfortable, practical, and jazzy. And my sweatsuit with the satin planets was ruined.

Also ruined? My previously implicit trust in the orderly.

Whatever its origin story, my fear of the unruly gastrointestinal is not particularly unique, I guess. No one really likes acid out the front or a mess out the back. It doesn’t feel good, and it is a physical manifestation of how out of our control our bodies actually are.

I write, as I wait for burbling abdomen to take over.

This morning is my second round of prep. I did one last night. The truth is, it went fine. My flashbacks to the cloying gestational diabetes test drink from pregnancy were not instructive: I have not had difficulty choking the colonoscopy prep solution down. Nor has the inevitable result been nearly as dramatic as suggested by other people with anxiety on the internet.

Now that I have hurdled the fence of my initial resistance, I’m casting my net wider, to the societal level. Why such a taboo about our bodies, and this colonoscopy test in particular? Literally everyone has a body that acts more or less the same way. I am not advocating for the crass. But who does it serve, when we are made to fear and loathe the normal and natural?

A crappy day or two is nothing, compared to cancer prevention.

I’m Writing A Novel, For Real This Time

On By erintothemaxIn Commentary1 Comment

In my twenties, I quit my job several times to write a novel. The premise was: working was incompatible with writing a novel.

This assumption of needing to stop everything to write a novel is especially hilarious now. Fast forward to 45, when I’m writing a novel, for real this time. And leading a non-profit organization. And married with a school-age child. And providing elder care support as the only child of my lovely parents. And completing an MFA in creative writing. And chairing a board of directors. And volunteering with the school. And going to church. And running a few marathons a year.

Writing a novel while I’m doing an ungodly number of things is weird, but I’m actually doing it. I’ve puttered around the margins of this story for years, trying to write my way in. How many times have I started a new draft, a new outline? It was time that I needed. Because now, the real novel is on.

I’ve written hundreds of pages, and write four a day on average. Every day. No matter what. I have an outline I’m more than halfway through, and am 136 pages into the draft that is actually going to be the real first draft, the serious first draft. The first time I ran a marathon I started tearing up around mile 24 because I realized I was far enough to actually finish. I have reached this feeling with this novel. I trust it. I will finish this first serious draft.

How is this possible? Especially given the number of commitments I’ve listed above?

Here’s my secret: Writing my novel is actually the most relaxing thing I do.

It’s gotten to the point where I’m in out-of-body mode when I’m writing my novel. I just zone out and let ‘er rip on the page.

Perhaps I have reached the maturity to write in flow (I am a merciless self-editor) because I have finally come to accept the real thing they teach you in MFA programs. Everything you write is only going to be rewritten. Again. Again. And again. And just when you think you’re about done, someone new will tell you to take it from the top once more in this new way that requires more work, more time. (The never-ending workshops of the MFA are their own topic, but I will note with envy the wise words of one of my favorite colleagues in my program: “I hate these people.”)

I have an Oura ring, which is constantly mad at me, in its polite Finnish way. I have learned: My body is showing a physiological stress response pretty much all the time. For example: Folding laundry is especially rough on my stress levels, apparently. But this is not addressable. I am a mom. I am always folding laundry. This fact is only made worse by the fact that I’m a distance runner. Talk about heart rate. (In an amusing paradox, whereas my husband very much wants his Apple Watch to track every bit of exercise he does for tracking purposes, I sometimes take my ring off for a long run so it won’t dock my readiness scores for the next few days.)

The amazing thing is the proof of my novel love is in my pulse. Short of sleep, there is no time my body is more relaxed than when I am writing my novel. Interestingly, this doesn’t apply to other times I am writing (creatively or professionally) or working at the same computer and desk. But if my vanilla novel-writing candle is lit, and I’ve got my coffee cup beside me, and the for-real first draft is open, it’s on.

And this is how I know that I’m writing a novel for real this time. That I’ll actually finish. That it doesn’t matter if I have a million other things going on. Because writing the novel has become the best part of my day, and I miss it when I’m not doing it. I want to be in that seat even when the scene is sputtering. The novel is not an aspiration, a chore, or even an end. The process has become the point.

As with running, when I’m writing the novel I am free. In a trance. Who cares if it’s any good? I don’t think I’ve done anything as beneficial for my mental and physical health in years.