The author, who is a big chicken, takes a look inside his colon: he thought about chickening out and putting off the colonoscopy examination, but Katie Couric started to shout inside his head, "You owe it to yourself and your family to get this checked out! Act like you're brave.".

After 57 years on this planet, I am sure of one thing: I am a big chicken when it comes to anything medical. Stalking wild animals with a slingshot is preferable to any health procedure that invades my body. For example, a colonoscopy.

A colonoscopy is a test in which a long flexible narrow tube (a little more than a quarter of an inch wide) is inserted into the rectum. This tube, called an endoscope, contains a light and a video camera. The camera captures images from inside the colon, or large intestine, and sends them to a video screen, allowing a physician to detect a number of medical problems, including colon or rectal cancer.

My doctor encouraged me to have a colonoscopy when I turned 50, although many doctors recommend having it done earlier if there is a family history of certain diseases, such as colon cancer. But there were always good reasons I couldn't find the time to have the procedure done: I needed to clean the yard, go to the dentist, play with the cat, clean the basement, scrub the aluminum siding, polish my golf balls, etc.

However, one day I noticed blood in my stool. Coincidentally, I had just read an article in Time magazine, "Katie's Crusade," about Today show cohost Katie Couric's fight against colon cancer. Her husband had died from the disease at 42, even though he had no family history of colon cancer, nor did he smoke. As part of Couric's educational effort to have people overcome their fear of having a colonoscopy, she underwent this procedure and had footage of her own intestine shown on television.

"Katie's Crusade" was an informative and persuasive article. After reading it, I decided to clean the basement again and repolish my golf balls. But as I worked on these vital projects, pieces of information from the article began to invade my brain: Colorectal cancer strikes 130,000 men and women each year ... more than 55,000 Americans will die from this disease over the next 12 months ... young people think only old people get it ... women think only men get it ... African-Americans think Whites get it ... warning signs ... especially bleeding from the rectum, unusual constipation, abdominal cramping, or narrowing of feces ... it's important not to let fear or embarrassment stand in the way of your health.

After repolishing the last golf ball, I called my doctor and made an appointment for an examination. As I drove to his office, chicken feathers flew all around me: "Should I mention the blood in my stool incident? Perhaps I ought to turn back. I don t think I really need an examination now. Maybe in a few months I'll have things checked out."

Ms. Couric then started to shout inside my head, "You owe it to yourself and your family to get this checked out! Act like you're brave. Tell the doctor about the blood. Even if there is a serious problem (which there probably isn't), colorectal cancer is curable more than 90 percent of the time when caught early." I kept driving.

When I arrived at the doctor's office, I was anxious. I kept debating in my head if I should tell him about the blood in my stool. A rooster who is a big chicken often doesn't think clearly. My name was called during my mental debate, and the nurse led me to the examination room. After she took my blood pressure and drew some blood, the doctor asked me into his office.

"Would you like a hot drink?" he asked as he went to get himself a cup.

"Ah, Doc, I had some blood in my stool," I blurted out.

Obviously used to nervous patients, he replied without missing a beat, "It's probably hemorrhoids, but I recommend you have a colonoscopy, just to check it out."

As soon as I heard that it might be hemorrhoids that caused the blood and not something worse, I felt 50 pounds lighter. He gave me the name of a gastroenterologist, and after a preliminary meeting with the doctor, a date was set for my colonoscopy.

By the day of the test, I was pretty nervous. I had heard that the hardest part of the experience was cleaning out the colon the night before the procedure. While taking the two saline laxative solutions and living with the results wasn't exactly party time, it wasn't all that bad. It was a comforting thought that the procedure might be easier than the preparation.

At 7:00 a.m. I reported to the hospital ambulatory surgery registration desk with my spouse, Susan (someone has to accompany you to the test, since the mild sedative they give you before the procedure prohibits driving afterward).

At 8:00 a.m. the aide wheeled me into the procedure room, and I immediately noticed the small video screen. I had mentioned to my doctor that I would like to ask him questions during the procedure, so he ordered the nurse to give me less sedative. After inserting the endoscope inside my rectum--I barely felt it go in--a picture appeared on the screen.

"There are the hemorrhoids," he pointed out.

They looked like pimples that had been treated with Miracle-Gro. As the endoscope moved into my large intestine-again there was very little discomfort--I was fascinated with what I saw on the screen. It reminded me of a science fiction picture. You know, like Journey to the End of Your Colon.

My colon looked like a salmon-colored tunnel with a few flecks of light green clinging to the walls. As the doctor moved the endoscope, he mentioned that I was going to feel a little pressure soon, and sure enough, I did--it felt like gas pain.

"Doc, how do you know that I am going to feel pressure?" I asked.

"Because I know where the endoscope is and where it will cause a little discomfort."

"How far have you gone?" I asked.

"About three feet," he answered.

"How do you know when you reach the end?"

"You reach the cecum, which is a blind pouch or cul-de-sac," he answered. "In fact, there it is now. Do you want a picture of your cecum to take home?"

"Sure, why not," I answered. How many chances does one get to have a picture of one's cecum?

I hardly felt the doctor withdraw the endoscope. When he reached my internal hemorrhoids, he took another picture for me. It certainly was my lucky day.

The whole procedure took about 25 minutes, and I was amazed how little discomfort I felt. Most important, there were no signs of any serious problems. Another piece of good news was that I did not have to have another colonoscopy for 10 years. Of course, I would still have to go for my annual physical and have a stool test done, which looks for. the presence of hidden blood. Overall, I decided having a colonoscopy was worth 10 years' peace of mind.

After leaving the hospital--I had been there less than four hours--Susan drove to a diner so we could get something to eat. As we were riding along, I thought about something I had seen recently on the Internet about a new noninvasive procedure to view the colon that the medical profession is now perfecting. It is called a 3-D virtual colonoscopy. This method uses advanced visualization techniques to achieve virtual imaging and exploration of the colon. Even though the present colonoscopy procedure is no big deal, I hope that when my next colonoscopy is due, the 3-D virtual colonoscopy is widely available so that this rooster, who is still a big chicken, can take a noninvasive look inside his colon.

How Colonoscopy Works

The colonoscope is inserted into the anus and gently guided to the cecum, the first part of you digestive tract.

Upon finding something suspicious, your doctor can take a biopsy.

Upon reaching the colon, your doctor can guide the colonoscope to view the entire area.

... or do a polyctomy.

Edward A. Joseph writes from Yonkers, New York.