I Hate My Guts

This story was reviewed in the Washinton Post! Read about it here.

IMPORTANT: If you found this after concerns about your own health led you to search the internet for information please feel free to write me. I'm still struggling with this and would be happy to share my experiences and trade notes with you. The cliche holds true: You're not alone. Write to klj@TAKETHISPARTOUTnotcomedy.com.

Click on the picture to enlarge, at your own risk. For more pictures of my insides, check out these cool brain scan pics.


“I haven’t had a solid shit in over 20 years.”

My father said it lightly. A casual statement of a fact he’d become comfortable with or resigned to at least. I on the other hand, didn’t sleep well for several nights. I’d had more problems with my stomach then any of my four brothers. My childhood is full of miserable memories like: the roto-rooter guy pulling a pair of my underwear out of the pipes after I’d flushed them rather than owning up to another accident; trying to convince my parents that I’d been framed, that my older brother had pooped my pants; sneaking home from the bus with a load in my pants, taking the long route as it was less populated. By the time I reached my teen years my stomach (and bowels) had settled down and by adulthood I’d become a vegan, and eventually a little bit of a health nut. I was sure my dad’s rotten bowels were no longer a part of my inheritance.

So, after four weeks of loose bowels, diarrhea, the runs, watery stools or whatever else you’d like to call it, I began to worry. I told my girlfriend, Bryna, that I was concerned over “problems with my stomach.” We’d been together over ten years, but there were parts of me I was still not prepared to share with her. She knew of my dad’s troubles and I’m sure she could figure out what I meant. She insisted I call the doctor. The advice nurse seemed to think this was pretty serious and within an hour a doctor had his finger up my ass. His was not the first professional finger up my ass, but I must say, he was to the manor born. Long thing fingers made this the least torturous trip up my bum to date. It seems that some doctors want to make it hurt, just so we can both be sure we’re not having a homosexual experience. I’ve actually considered seeking a gay doctor, just to find a gentler touch. And if I end up enjoying the experience, so be it.

Of course it’d be my luck that this least unpleasant of rectal exams would lead to the most invasive and miserable one yet. The doctor found small traces of blood, and no sign of bacterial infection. I was sent home with two cups of instant stool sample (just add stool) and an appointment for a colonoscopy.
The stool sample preparation was revolting. I can now rest assured that I have no scatological impulses. I kept everything in a brown paper bag, the specimen containers, the popsicle sticks, the little cup that hangs in the toilet to catch the offending matter, and I kept this bag out of Bryna’s sight. She was great, and really wanted to be there for me, but I had to tell her that there were things I needed to do on my own. She settled for a promise that I would share any and all news of or change in my condition with her.

I had to hold to that promise too soon as the trace amounts of blood the doctor detected became a much larger amount of blood. I’d say it scared the shit out of me but that would just confuse things. I dialed the advice nurse who calmed me down and let me know that this wasn’t as serious as I thought. The blood was relatively low in quantity, and was nice red liquid blood. Black or tarry blood or stool is a sign of bleeding further up the pipes. I just had a small amount of bleeding in the colon, which we’d already established, and I could wait the few days to get the results of my stool samples and colonsoscopy.

So I relaxed and got some sleep with my wonderful, understanding girlfriend holding me and telling me it would be okay.

The day before my exam, I had to fast, liquids only, up till 10pm, and then nothing, not even water from 10 pm until the exam at 10 am the next morning. I dropped off my mysterious brown bag. I was given a HUGE tub of liquid laxative/nutritional supplement to drink, one cup every fifteen minutes. I popped on some Simpsons DVDs and began drinking about two cups per episode (with a few minutes to spare since there were no commercials. By the fourth episode my head was aching and a gag reflex had started. My body decided it had had enough of this foul, pineapple flavored brew. Then my bowels let me know that it was working. The only thing I could think of, then or now, to describe what happened when I reached that toilet, in just the nick of time, is Old Faithful. I took a seat and 5 seconds later I was worrying that the toilet would over flow. The liquid seemed to be gushing out no more solidified than it went in. I was relieved (unintentional bad pun, I swear) that Bryna was working and was not home for my jogs to the bathroom. I kept filling and emptying myself as instructed, until half the bottle was gone. It seemed strange that they’d give me twice what I needed but I surely felt cleansed and ready for probing.

I was starving and exhausted and despite the excitement and terror of knowing that they were “going in” come morning, I managed to get some sleep.

Bryna drove me to the hospital and I was actually a little giddy. I have always enjoyed going through extreme experience in a safe controlled environment, be it riding a roller coaster at an amusement park or having four wisdom teeth pulled while fully conscious at the oral surgeons office. This had an extra threat of attacking my modesty but that only made it that much more exhilarating. I’m not entirely comfortable with how much I enjoy these experiences, but hey, if I get to be the guy who walks out of the operating room with a mouthful of bloody gauze and a solid case of the giggles, I shouldn’t complain.

Once at the doctor’s office, I established that I did indeed have a ride home and I proved that this procedure would indeed be paid for. During the pre-procedure interview they told me I was supposed to have consumed ALL of the liquid. A friend of my fathers had actually had the drugs administered, and the camera inserted only to be sent home because he was literally, full of shit (sorry, couldn’t help it.)

What a nightmare this would be, having to drink all that horrible gunk again. Having to blow ass for the better part of a season of The Simpsons. I crossed my fingers slipped out of my cloths into a little blue gown that opened in the back.

I was led to the big room with stations cordoned of by curtains and introduced to the anesthesiologist. The one fear I have that I was not anxious to confront is my fear of being put under. I asked the fellow with the needles if he could give me a light enough dose that I could stay awake. He said sure, and told me I could even watch on the little tv next to my bed as they made a journey through my colon. This made me wish I’d stuck a few little plastic monsters up there.

He shot me full of drugs, and I was O U T in less then a minute. I haven’t done recreational drugs, not even alcohol in years and I’d forgotten how much fun it can be to have your senses flipped upside down. My eyesight echoed, my limbs grew heavy, breathing became a very satisfying experience and then the lights went out for this lightweight.

I can only speculate what happened in between, but I woke up on my side and I could feel something inside of me. The wow fancy amazing camera was way up under my ribs, poking me, ON THE INSIDE. “That hurts” I announced. The three or four or twenty thousand people behind me all ignored me. I started chanting and doubling over, “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.” My pal with the needles suddenly reappeared and when I woke up again they were all done.

My ass didn’t hurt. My insides didn’t hurt. I was groggy and my whole body was heavy from the drugs. I was put in a wheel chair and rolled out to Bryna. I saw the doctor putting on her coat, and making to leave. This pissed me off. I wanted to know what she saw. You don’t just shove a camera up someone’s ass and then leave without so much as a snuggle, so I yelled at her. “Hey. Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” No one flinched at my yelling and swearing and she left. Bryna told me later that I whispered it, but she could tell my intent and she fetched the doctor’s assistant. He told me that a specialist would see me and discuss their finding but that I looked like I was going to be fine. He sent me home with pictures of my colon. This thrilled me despite the puss and blood that was apparent. I had pictures of my own freakin’ colon, so cool.

My sweetheart got me home, and into bed, and I was too drugged to care that I was farting long glorious farts the whole way. You see, part of the procedures is inflating the colon like a balloon, giving the camera more room to maneuver and a better view. The balloon then must deflate, which it did, with great efficiency and exuberance.

By the time I saw the specialist my symptoms had abated. I was having nice solid turds sans blood. I had also gotten over my shyness as I went about describing said turds as well as the camera up my ass, the resulting farts, the joys of shitting blood, with whoever didn’t get away fast enough. The photos were shown around. They were even published online resulting in a fan site dedicated to my colon and an original piece of Art being made from the photos and submitted to be displayed at the State Fair. The State Fair rejected my colon.

I saw the specialist, and luckily I had brought my photos since they didn’t have my records. This was the great healthcare I was paying for? The doctor resisted any talk of nutritional considerations, even urging me not to give up coffee? Then in the same breath he told me to avoid dairy or alcohol. He didn’t believe me when I said that my symptoms went away and to prove that I was still suffering he proceeded to poke me in the belly harder and harder saying “Does this hurt.” Eventually it did hurt, as it would on any healthy person, and when I said as much, he smiled and slapped a prescription of steroids and a colon specific medicine on me.

The name of that colon medicine? Ready yourself. Asacol (pronounced ass, as in Ass, uh, cole, like in Colon.) Nothing worse than a pharmacist with a sense of humor.
I got in a real dark mood as they went about determining if I had ulcerative colitis (my white blood cells rejecting and attacking my colon lining) or crohns (my white blood cells going after my entire digestive tract.) Chrons would be much more serious. Worse case scenario for ulcerative colitis, they remove your colon and fix you up with a shit bag. With chrons there’s little they can do so you’d just better hope you respond to medication. Both conditions are genetic and not believed to be caused by any environmental factors.

I became increasingly depressed (which I was later told is a common symptom of ulcerative colitis) as I stressed out over just how deep this rabbit hole was going to be. I have always been a hypochondriac and so having a real disease gave validations to insecurities that I had managed to keep at bay until now. I underwent a slew of tests. They pored barium down my throat to ex-ray my stomach and small intestine. Yum, barium. After drinking it you give birth to some solid white shits. They took what seemed like pints of my blood for testing. It was determined that crohns was highly unlikely. I think chrons exists so that people with u.c. can say, “At least it’s not chrons.” What people with crohns get to say, I’m not sure.

I finished my run of the steroids, and the asacol (snicker, snicker) seems to be doing its job. My mistrust of doctors and medicines had me reducing my own dose despite my family’s urging me not to. The immediate return of symptoms convinced me that I do indeed need this drug. I am continuing to experiment with my diet. I belonged to an online support group for people with U.C. but I had to quit. The folks on the list all have it worse than me and they were giving me nightmares. I guess folks who are asymptomatic would be less likely to post to such a board. The people who carry an extra set of cloths with them at all times in case they shit themselves were not helping me to stay calm and relaxed, an important part of treating this condition. I’ve lost forty pounds, and I was about forty pounds over weight, so I’ve let it be the silver lining to this cloud. And if someday things take a turn for the worst and they have to take my colon, Hey, that’s another couple of pounds right there!


Believe it or not, my diseased, bleeding, puss oozing colon has a fan site. Click this link and have a gander. Link: I hate Keith Lowell Jensen's Guts.

Bloody Screaming Murder

Neither my dad, my mom nor any one of my brothers had even the least bit of sympathy for the unimaginable indignities I suffered at the hands of my younger brother, James. I reported to them every horrible, hate-able offense he’d commit and never once did they give him the thrashing he so desperately deserved. And if I did what had to be done and doled out justice they’d change their separatist stance instantly and come to his aid.

One night James and I were really going at it, as we were most nights. He’d managed to exhaust my considerable supply of patience, so I whacked him a good one sending him howling to our older brother Edward. Edward was officially in charge as he was the oldest person home at the time and I pleaded my case to him passionately. I’d have been offended if he hadn’t seen my side but I was absolutely livid that he wouldn’t even listen to me. He socked me hard on the arm and headed back to the living room where he was probably watching Benny Hill (strictly forbidden when mom was home).

It was more than I could bear. The feeling of absolute powerlessness was too much. I had to, just once show him that I could not be treated so unfairly. I grabbed a backpack full of books and I headed down the hallway after him. I swung the bag in a wide arc over my head bringing it down hard on his. The instant I heard the repulsive sound of the heavy pack connecting with my brother’s skull I knew that if he wasn’t dead I would be.

Edward went down, and I was unable to run. I knew I’d overdone it and I was worried that I had indeed killed him. I was also scared shitless and so I crept with a trepidation that I could feel in my bones. I was wound tight as a mouse trap ready to shoot off in the other direction should Edward show any sign of life. But instead, I froze, as Edward turned and rose to his feet, rage showing in his face. I didn’t manage to duck or event to raise my hands as Edward pulled back his fist. He let me have it, full force, right smack in the nose. He was quite a bit bigger than me and the blow sent me flying backwards. I landed next to the bathroom door which I crawled though and locked. I looked in the bathroom mirror and saw that I was bleeding fairly heavily. Even through my hysterics I knew I had to win this one, some how.

I let the blood seep into my shirt. I bled onto my hands which I then smeared across the window. I bled on the counter tops. I bled on the linoleum, on the rugs, all over the toilet. When the blood flow would slow I give my nose a pull and keep it going. Until finally, the bathroom was a ghastly, bloody , mess. I squeezed between the toilet and the bathtub and, spent, I fell asleep. I woke up several times when Edward knocked, and when I heard him picking the lock I grabbed it on my end and hung on for dear life. He finally gave up. I was aware of my mother knocking a good hour later but I pretended to be asleep or worse. I was well aware of the affect I was after. As my poor mother got the door open and entered the bathroom of horrors, she flew into a panic. My mother, who never got played fell hook line and sinker, and Edward who already felt guilty about having hit me in the face, with no restraint took her torrent of scolding without answering back. He was grounded. James felt guilty for his role and I was pittied and pampered. For once, covered in blood and with a swollen nose and two black eyes, I had won.