The following story contains details about my arse. It may cause you to lose your appetite and think less of me.
What makes a man? I’m talking about a fully grown adult man, not some half-baked manchild. Is it a penis? Well, yes (most of the time) but besides that? How do you know you are an adult, and in my case a man? I recently got married, have a car loan and health insurance. If that doesn’t make me a man then surely the 12 chest hairs I have been cultivating since I was 25 might have something to say about it. If all of this isn’t undeniable proof of my maturity & masculinity I have a wild card, a draw 4+ for adulthood. Haemorroids.
The word itself is enough to simultaneously spawn giggles and winces. So let’s join hands and break down the preconceived notions of haemorroids. The first step is to define them…
- A swollen vein or group of veins in the region of the anus.
Swollen arse veins. Let that sink in for a moment. There’s a renegade group of veins on my butt that are engorged and painful. How are you supposed to react to this news? Recoil in disgust or snicker uncontrollably?
A fully grown adult man takes life in his stride, he laughs at life’s obstacles as he hurdles over them. Even if that particular motion would cause some mild to moderate discomfort, he does it anyway! The journey I have been on since this discovery has been painful yet entertaining and went a little something like this…
Wake up one morning and realise that my butt is sore, think nothing more of it and assume I had an awesome night. Travel 3 hours home in a Navara that has questionable suspension. Arrive home and come to the painful realisation that sitting down is not an option, cautiously think that I might have to stand up for the rest of my life and come to terms with this fact. After a lengthy period of standing motionless the chamber pot called my name. I said some swears as the pain ensued. Now you can probably tell I am avoiding detailed descriptions so here is a visual aid…
Figure 1. A confectionery description of my butt.
Sitting on a post-war latrine and crying into a toilet roll isn’t the most amusing scenario. The real entertainment comes with a visit to the GP. How do you choose which lucky doctor gets to spread your cheeks apart and look into your big brown eye? A la la la la long, a la la la la long long li long long long. It was a simple choice, a male doctor would be preferable as I am now married and have been off the ‘scene’ for almost a decade. The very fact I thought I could pickup a nice lady doctor when she is looking at my butt speaks volumes of how in touch I am. So a man it is, a man with the most appropriate name I could find. Due to my assumed massive popularity of this blog I won’t reveal his name, but it rhymed with lube (and boob). He was close to my home so he ticked all the boxes.
Having Dr. Lube inspect my butt for lumps was ridiculous, his gloved fingers probed as I giggled uncontrollably. Perhaps my response stemmed from fright and embarrassment, but I can assure you that Dr Lube most certainly did not find it funny.
“Immediately I can see a lump, does this hurt?”
I whimper that it hurts as he finds an effective way to stop my incessant laughter – PAIN. From this point on I have to assume that he is some kind of sociopath that hates laughter, a medical Grinch of sorts. His next move is a textbook play, if the textbook is ‘Scare Tactics: Butt Edition’ and he proceeds to tell me my options.
“Well you could just leave it alone, use some cream and it will get better in time. The other option is the procedure whereby we inject a local anaesthetic directly into your anus (the bumhole); make an incision and drain the fluid. It’s quite a painful procedure, and the recovery time is variable, also there is risk of infection but otherwise it is a safe and recognised procedure.”
I opted for the anus cream. It is more pleasant because it almost sounds like ice cream and didn’t involve sticking a needle directly into my arse.
As I pulled my pants up, Dr Lube’s final words of wisdom were “Remember to eat lots of fruit & veggies and consider using a stool softener or fibre supplement such as Metamucil. Oh and stay away from spicy foods”. This wasn’t what I wanted to hear as my meals in the previous 24 hours included: A non-descript curry, a spicy burrito and some peanut butter on toast. You may think that last one doesn’t sound so bad, but it was crunchy peanut butter and it was on soy & linseed bread. 100% shrapnel. If anyone has the twisted desire to experience this just go abroad and sit down on a landmine. I’m sure the difference would be infinitesimal.
This experience is just a baby step in the ocean of life. A baby who can walk into the ocean is one that, presumably, has no fear of death and probably doesn’t even understand the concept of drowning. I am that baby, all grown up and without fear.