Next time I'm taking the drugs!

A few weeks ago, I endured the pleasure of undergoing an upper gastric endoscopy. Given that I did this without the benefit of being sedated, I feel compelled to share my experience with all those who are prepared to listen (or read, in this case).

As a brief introduction to my medical history, I have a condition called eosinophilic oesophagitis, where the passage of food through my oesophagus is restricted occasionally by what appears to be an allergic reaction. Due to the excessive length of this official medical terminology (and because one of my “problem foods” is chicken) this condition has become known colloquially as “chokage”, “chicken-itis” and “the reason why an unswallowed sausage caused Gareth’s car to mount the curb at 45mph on the A46”.

Being male, it took six years after the initial A46 debacle for me to be diagnosed officially. Then four years later, and six months after my medication stopped working, I finally requested a follow-up endoscopy — which brings us back to the present day.

Today’s technology allows you to build a laptop computer that is thinner than a copy of the News of the World. As such, I was surprised to discover that a standard NHS endoscopy requires a tube that is roughly the diameter of your thumb to be shoved down your gullet. It is routine to be offered sedation, but without a chaperone to take you home once the endoscopy is over, the nurses will refuse to put you to sleep. With none of my family able to collect me that day, I opted for the second option — the “have your throat numbed but stay awake” option. That, my friends, is one mistake I shall not make again.

After the xylocaine spray was applied, and I was chowing down on a small plastic ring, the tube was inserted. “When I insert the tube, swallow at first, and then try to breathe normally,” said the consultant. This was unpleasant enough — imagine sticking two fingers down your throat as if you were trying to induce a tactical chunder during a night on the beers, and then leaving them in situ. However, to be fair, once it was in and I had calmed down, the coughing, spluttering and burping was soon replaced by very deliberate breathing.

Despite the consultant’s announcement that 12 biopsies were to be taken (and let me assure you that every time a sample was taken, it felt like someone was taking a chunk out of my food pipe), things were OK for the first five minutes. Then, the attending nurse started to neglect one of her chores: the one requiring her to remove the excess dribble from my mouth with a suction tube.

By this time, the presence of the endoscopy tube had turbo-charged my salivary glands and I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a queue of drought-sufferers forming at the bedside. For some reason, I tried to tell the nurse that the suction tube was no good to me on the table, but this brought on a fit of anxiety-ridden gagging and burping. “Just breathe normally, don’t try to swallow,” said the ever-helpful medic. It was as if he expected me to have practiced the art of ignoring a thumb-sized tube in your throat while breathing through a gob-full of phlegm before attending the appointment.

After several hours of further burps and splutters (although admittedly the clock on the wall only advanced a further five minutes), the tube was removed. “You can relax now,” said the medic. Comforting words, although I had to ruin three large wads of tissue paper to remove the excess dribble.

I have now learnt my lesson, and am keen to emphasise this lesson to others. Next time, I’m taking the drugs, and one of my nearest and dearest will be taking a day off work.