Fifty Years

Fifty years ago this spring, in 1966, I was back home in Oswego, on a break during my junior year at the University of Pennsylvania.  Things were going well.  After struggling my first three semesters, I was now a more confident and successful student.  Penn had just won its first official Ivy League Men’s Basketball championship.  I could take a week off and relax.

However, I saw a drop of blood where none was supposed to be and it changed my life forever.  Slowly, over time, more symptoms would develop and worsen.  When I returned to campus in Philadelphia, I went to the Student Health Services (SHS) for help.  At first, they thought it was hemorrhoids.

When the academic year finished, I went home without a final diagnosis nor treatment.  I suffered, mostly in silence, during the almost four month hiatus from Penn.  I felt too ashamed and embarrassed to tell my parents about my problem.  Finally, I had no choice.  To my stupid surprise, they were very supportive.  As I was near returning to campus, they agreed to accept my decision to continue seeking medical help at the SHS.

That fall of 1966, besides my academic work, I was engaged in two parallel activities: (1) the above mentioned medical investigation, and (2) my application to enter the United States Air Force Officer Candidate School (OCS) after graduation from Penn in May of 1967.  The war in Vietnam was raging and America was drafting young men to fight there.  I didn’t want to extend my student deferment by going to graduate school (I wanted to become financially independent of my parents ASAP) nor escape to Canada.  I had no choice but to enter the military, but where would be the best place for me?  I thought I had found it.

First, I had to pass an officer aptitude test.  I did and was accepted into the OCS.  I was also required to take more tests to determine if I had the aptitude to become either a pilot or a navigator.  I didn’t.  I remember my recruiter, Sargeant Nixon (an African-American and no relation to the president),  sadly giving me the bad news.  I tried to hide the fact that I was pleased with the results.  At the time, I had a fear of flying.  I was to report to Lackland Air Force Base, outside of San Antonio, Texas, on July 5, 1967 to start my new career (four year enlistment) in the Air Force.

However, within about thirty days of my graduation, I was finally diagnosed with ulcerative colitis, an inflammatory bowel disease.  I remember my gastroenterologist telling me that I must start taking nine pills (Azulfidine) a day for the rest of my life (it went down to six and now to four) and regularly visit a doctor wherever I would settle.  He asked what were my plans and I told him the Air Force.  He said that was not possible as they would not accept someone with such a chronic condition.  He said I was to inform the Air Force immediately and they would cancel my appointment to the OCS.  Eventually, my local draft board would change my status to 1Y, needed only case the USA was invaded.

At first, I was very disappointed I wouldn’t be going into the Air Force since I had invested a lot of time and energy into the application process.  I especially remember the very vigorous and time-consuming physical I took at a government facility in Philadelphia, during which they did not detect my chronic medical condition.  But it finally dawned on me that I didn’t really want to enter the military.  Now, I didn’t have to.  Now, my options were wide open.  On July 5, 1967, I was in Detroit, Michigan, starting my career as an accountant.

My mother had taught me to obey authority figures, which included doctors.  I took that original advice to heart, to take my medicine every day and stay close to a doctor, who over the years have annually prescribed intrusive procedures to determine what’s going on inside my large intestine, especially for early signs of colon cancer.  I remember the barium enema and then the advent of the colonoscopy (much better). 

I’ve been told that, relatively speaking, I have a mild case.  Most victims of this disease have it much worse.  Well, I’ve always considered myself to be a lucky man.  (Did I ever tell you about the free brand new car I once got?)  In the fifty years since it started (and since I started treatment), I’ve had only few bad episodes. 

In the early 1980s, I experienced a very strange sensation, a slight but noticable feeling of being unwell.  It was as if I was being slowly poisoned.  I had a feeling it was my Azulfidine.  I stopped taking it for a few days and the sensation disappeared.  I resumed the pills and the sensation came back.  My doctor determined that I was allergic to the sulpha in my medicine.  Luckily, there was alternative called Asacol, without sulpha, which I took for about thirty years until its manufacturer discontinued producing it.  Then I switched to another brand called Delzicol.

My first colitis attack was in 1991 (25 year mark).  My family and I were in Amherst, Massachusetts, checking out the University of Massachusetts for my high school aged daughter, Rachel.  I woke up early one day in our hotel room.  All were sleeping.  I was restless and took a walk around the nearby campus of Amherst College.  I returned to our room and used the bathroom.  Shortly thereafter, I suddenly developed abdominal pain that wouldn’t go away.  We returned to New York and my doctor (Janowitz) prescribed, what he called the Atomic Bomb, a corticosteroid called prednisone (side affects include weight gain, aggressive behavior, and reddish complexion).  It did the trick, but it is not a drug to be toyed with or overused.

Five years later, in 1996, the second attack came on gradually.  I remember that I lost my apetite.  I couldn’t even eat one of my favorite desserts, chocolate pudding.  I lost a lot of weight.  My son, Bret, thought I was dying.  I went back on prednisone and was again quickly cured.  That was twenty years ago and I have had no problems ever since. 

And now I am in Brazil and having my colonoscopies here where the preparation is easier than in the States.  My diet for the day before the last procedure was all the ice cream and mashed potatoes I wanted.  Unfortunately, I have to import my Delzicol from the USA as it is not available here.  Thus I have had to deal with Fedex and Brazilian Customs.  I tried one of the local alternatives and it did not agree with me.  I’m going to try another. 

My advice to colitis patients based on 50 years of experience:  stick to your daily medicine (not just when you experience symptoms) and have your colonoscopies regularly as prescribed and you should survive to a ripe old age. 

I recently finished reading a novel, Purity, by Jonathan Franzen.  One of the main characters studied at the University of Pennsylvania.  His mother suffers from a bowel disease and her gastroenterologist prescribed prednisone and colonoscopies.  What a coincidence!