*The folowing is a recreation of an actual telephone exchange between two persons of interest. Where appropriate, names/ locations/ personal details have been changed in order to protect the parties concerned.and, y'know, for shits and giggles too I suppose.*
"Good afternoon, Bananaborough Medical Practice - Sophia speaking, how can I help you?"
"Good afternoon Sophia I hope you can help me; I'd like to speak to a doctor over the phone, preferably as soon as possible?"
"No problem, I'll just go ahead and book you a telephone appointment. Can I just take your name, date of birth and a brief description of what it's regarding please?"
"Skiptony James Rooberland, fourteenth of August 1981 and uh... to be honest, I'm just looking for a quick yes/ no answer is all. S'nothing major."
"Can you be a bit more specific?"
"I uh...I really just-"
"Mr Rooberland, I'm afraid I'm going to need a little bit more information from you than 'just looking for a yes/no answer' before I can go ahead and book the appointment in the system."
"Hmph. Well - Since you put it that way: I've discovered a small red lump protruding from the rim of my anus and I need to know if it's a hemorrhoid, or if I'm about to die a slow, painful death at the hands of rectum cancer."
"......"
"Sophia? - Are you still there? Is that enough information?!?"
There are many rites of passage on the road to manhood. Most of them, we're well forewarned of from an early age: Shaving, pubes, foul body odour, a deepening of the voice. These are but a small sampling of the many changes that any pre-pubescent boy (and some very unfortunate girls) will pass, on the richeous road to adulthood. He'll be well warned of them though: Fully informed time and time again through cautionary tales, handed down like legends of yore from health-class teachers, older siblings, parents and touchy-feely, weirdo neighbours alike.(Is that last one maybe just me? God I wish we had Childline in the eighties).
Then there are the more unsavoury changes - treated with a fervent (almost revered) degree of clandestine omission, from all advisory talks on what it means to become a man, I refer here to the dreaded, fearful changes that every young man hopes he will never have to deal with on his steady progression towards the reapers sweet embrace: Baldness, beer bellies, moobs, arm flab, impotence. As, when, and if any of these vile ailments should come for me in later life though, I'll be ready for them. For the majority of my life my every step has been dogged by the one thing that I can never have respite from: My own body. Like some vile, demented meta-tormentor, it would seem my carbon-based soul husk exists with only one heinous purpose: To make my every waking moment a brutal, savage, sisyphean ordeal.
If there's one thing positive thing a lifetime of crippling arthritis has gifted me though, it's a heightened perception for what qualifies as suffering (For example, it's hard to get upset about a little teenage acne when you just spent your pre-teen years learning how to walk again!). So what if my future may contain a podgy gut, less hair and a floppy cock? Fucking bring it!!. However, no amount of stoic cynicism could prepare me for the recent curve-ball that was thrown my way, courtesy of my good friend Mr. butt-hole - My first haemorrhoid.
Sadly, said haemorrhoid arrived with little fanfare and virtually no back story to speak of. I just reached behind one day to wipe and 'boom' there it was, claiming squatter's rights between my ass cheeks. It was saddening in away as I always thought I'd pop my first 'roid while doing something glorious. Like pinching off a steaming brown social statement, while I performed a stunt-bike jump over Chris Martin's head, as he plays to a packed audience, live at the BAFTA's. Now that just seems like the silly, naive little dream of a far younger, less learned man. I have to admit to being more than a little terrified at first. Even with my vast experience of extreme toilet crises to fall back on this was new, unmarked territory for me. After eventually securing a telephone appointment with my doctor (as a result of the above conversation no less) I was informed to my relief that, yes it was in fact a heorrhoid and no there is no such ailment known as rectum cancer. Exhaling a sigh of relief on both counts I then asked if there was anything I could do to treat my problem. She suggested an over-the-counter piles cream.
And so it was, that in presenting me with a solution to my problem, my GP had now, inadvertently, provided me with another problem in of itself. I now had to go and buy piles cream. I've often heard people speak of the embarrassment that results in having to buy certain items of a medical nature: Tampons, condoms, thrush cream,. laxatives. I would willingly buy each of those, all at once, in bulk, from a wholesaler, while the whole time loudly declaring "I NEED THESE FOR MY WILDLY DYSFUNCTIONAL GENITALS!" before I would ever again face the awkwardness of buying another tube of Anusol.
As I entered my local pharmacy later that day, I decided the best way to go about my transaction was to play it cool. 'Just act like you buy piles cream all the time!' my instincts whispered into my mind's ear.. I realise now in hindsight that it was probably not the best plan of attack I could have ran with .So, there I was, shoulders back and head held high as I made my way towards the sole member of staff in view; a fussy looking, bespectacled, older woman who looked like she surely must have been months from either retirement, or a cremation (depending on which came first)."Can you please point me in the direction of your over-the-counter, topical piles creams?" I asked, doing my best not to make a big fuss over what was likely to be a routine request she faces regularly. Sadly, I did not receive the blasé response I was so dearly hoping for. Instead, she immediately broke eye contact with me and became fixated with a vague point in the general area of my left arm. "I'll take you over to them" she helpfully muttered to my navel.
The lady then brought me to a section of the pharmacy which, in a less discreet world, would have been dubbed 'the bum cream aisle'. She waved her arms toward the assorted creams in a (slightly more enthusiastic than the situation called for) flourish, wordlessly signalling to me that we had now reached exactly what I was looking for. At this point I nodded and drew my gaze from the lady, to the rows of various creams, trying to establish from the packaging which seemed likely to give me the most bang for my butt. While I was perusing the shelves, I noticed from out of the corner of my eye that the pharmacy worker was still standing there. Still, disconcertingly flourishing in the direction of the haemorrhoid creams. And with a slightly unnerving smile on her face. It was hard to know at the time, or even now in hindsight what she was wanting from me - A tip? A high-five? A congratulatory pat on the ass? Who knows
It may have been that this only went on for a second or two more than was necessary, but the palpable awkwardness made it drag on for an eternity. It was during that period of unease, while alternately taking in both this woman and the selection of medicated ointments she was, for want of a better word, 'presenting' to me that a weird epiphany took hold; 'this is quite possibly how the world's worst game-show would go down' I mused. Can you picture it too, even as you read this? A brightly lit-up stage sets the scene while a packed studio audience cheer on two couples, as they vie to compete for the chance to win a lifetime supply of Anusol. Following intermittent breaks in the action, a c-section scarred septuagenarian pops out to present and seductively gesticulate toward the star prize while sporting a pink, thong-backed bikini she clearly has no business wearing. I'm going to pause for a moment now while I reflect on whether that scenario horrifies me or just took the top spot in my list of best sexual fantasies...
Eager to exit this torrent of awkwardness as soon as possible, I decided to forgo the follow-up questions. I reached out and grabbed a tube of Anusol , thanked the lady for her time and followed her to the checkout. Exhaling a sigh of relief I stepped out into the cold Winter wind, I anxiously made my way home. Hoping that this whole ordeal would soon come to an end with the application of my cream.
Bizarrely, the lady broke through the barrier of discomfort long enough to give me these parting words: "Just, be careful with that cream, I've had complaints in the past that Anusol can be quite greasy after it's been applied". I am still, even now, at a genuine loss as to what type of conversation must have taken place in order for the pharmacy workers to have gained that knowledge. The most plausible scenario I've been able to come up with pans out with a disgruntled customer, returning to the pharmacy and relaying his woes in the following manner: "Madam, I am not happy with this piles cream you sold me, not happy at all! It has left my anus incredibly greasy. Greasy to the point where I can no longer safely stow my spare change in my colon. You and your company now owe me sixteen pounds worth of lost twenty pences!"
I arrived back home with the cream and anxiety started to creep in. This was it. I was going to have to stick my very own finger in the immediate vicinity of the place where my poops come out. This wasn't going to be pretty. Taking no time to read the instructions (as, let's be honest, being a man it would go against my principals) I ripped the box open and was greeted by this enchanting little attachment here:
 |
| Oh hell no! |
No matter how bad things get, I told myself, that little hose is going to remain nothing more than a superfluous attachment and - In very extreme scenarios only, a makeshift drinking straw. So with much trepidation, I entered the bathroom, squeezed a little blob of the cream onto my finger and... well, this is the part where the more squeamish amongst you may want to skip this article altogether and wait till I put up my next post in 2013.. So anyway, with butt-cheeks spread, and eyes screwed up tight I gingerly thrust my ointment-laden finger toward what was my best guess at my bum-hole's exact location and... I missed the haemorrhoid entirely. I sighed deeply as dismal realisation set in; dabbing blindly wasn't going to be the way forward. Clearly I would need to use a little more finesse. With another dab of cream I executed plan B. I would have to send my middle non cream-bearing finger in as a scout, have it get the lay of the land and then report back to the index finger with the angry red nodule's exact point of origin. I gagged slightly while carrying out this procedure. No man should ever have to be this acquainted with his own anatomy. No-one!
I had until then, only vaguely been on touch terms with the little fleshy protrusion, i.e; I had only felt it through toilet paper. This was a different sensation altogether.It felt far less like a part of my body and much more like a baked bean I had accidentally sat upon, only to then have it become determinedly stuck upon my person. Needless to say it felt unpleasant and unnatural. Words cannot express the disappointment I felt when I checked the lump's progress later on that night, and it was still as extraneous as ever. Clearly the Anusol was not a wonder tonic with uncanny properties, and this ordeal was going to take some time to iron itself out.
Three uneventful days passed by - And then shit got real...
I was sitting alone in bed one night ready to turn in after a bit of light reading. Sadly, owing to circumstance, much of the light reading I partook in for those few days was entirely haemorrhoid related. After stumbling across a great deal of misinformation (and, most troublingly, a great deal of scaremongering sales pitches for ointments!) I found myself stumbling upon the NHS website:- An always invaluable portal of medical knowledge. It was perusing said site, that I was to become accustomed with the varying grades of Haemorrhoid and their accompanying symptoms. Let's take a look at them shall we? Better yet still let's give them all handy-dandy code names lest they might stick in our minds a bit longer:
- Grade one haemorrhoids (The Inside Job) - Small swellings often inside the lining of your anus. They cannot be seen and are very common. In some cases, they will enlarge to grade two.
- Grade two haemorrhoids (Cuckoo Clock) - These are larger in size but are still within your anus. Sometimes they become pushed out when you pass a stool, but will return inside immediately after.
- Grade three haemorrhoids (Chest Buster) - Appear outside your anus. You may be able to feel one or more small lumps hanging out. They are also referred to as prolapsed haemorrhoids. You will usually be able to push them back inside using your finger.
- Grade four haemorrhoids (Non-violent Protestor) - Can become quite large and remain outside your anus permanently. They cannot be pushed back inside and will need to be treated by your GP.
I skimmed the list feeling a sudden pang of empathy for whomsoever was assigned with the arduous task of cataloguing the multiple grades of haemorrhoid (I'd wager that even to this day they have a strong aversion to placing their hands anywhere near they're mouths). I then set upon the task of cataloguing the status of my own haemorrhoid. Now there's a sentence I hoped I'd never live to write.
So, without any hesitation I immediately wrote out The Inside Job and Cuckoo Clock from the list of possible candidates. My Hershey hole hitch-hiker was very much the devoted, outdoors-y type - so that left me faced with either scenario three or four. The question remained though: Which was it? No matter how many times I read the information over, there just didn't seem to be much distinguishing a Chest Buster from a Protester. Then, on my umpteenth re-read, I spotted a little sentence that until now had continually passed through my eyes without triggering anything on the brain front:
"You will usually be able to push them back inside using your finger"
No! Surely they couldn't be serious? This was a revelation of the Tyler Durden magnitude. I could just... slip my finger onto the haemorrhoid... and push it back from whence it had came? I started to pace the bedroom floorspace. Surely this couldn't be true, could it? They couldn't genuinely expect people to slip a finger into their own bumhole and re-arrange the furniture like that... could they? Absolutely not I decided. Whatever the alternative that remained was, positively had to be better than fingering my own bum. I mean, my naturally inquisitive nature had driven me to send things up there in the past but my God - Never my own finger! I'm not a monster!
So the matter was settled; I absolutely, no way, no how, not-on-your-nelly, unequivocally did not have myself a case of the Chest Busters. That only left Grade Four to consider; the Non-violent Protester. What was their prognosis for that again? I reread the description: "will need to be treated by your GP". - So that clinched it then. It was definitely a Grade Three. And so, after performing some deep breathing exercises one would normally associate with an Olympic weightlifter I got myself pumped up and mentally prepared to poke that bothersome fleshy mass onward, upward and out of my life for good.
I lay on my side, tucked up my knees and ,with my forefinger gingerly entering the enemy territory, secured the perimeter. I slowly started to apply pressure, silently bargaining with every God I could think of, that I would build a small temple in their honour, if this actually worked. As I pressed even harder I started to doubt the NHS website's information source. No way could this work. It couldn't just be this easy to take care of. I may as well just give in now and make another appointment with the doct -
Holy fuck! It slipped back in!
I cannot even begin to competently relay to you in words, the strong mixture of satisfaction, euphoria and delight (satis-phori-ight?) I experienced as that pink little bastard slid home. I felt like a hero, a sorceror, an elemental deity! This must surely be how God felt as he shaped the earth with his own two hands! Beethoven's Ode To Joy rang out in my ears, a single tear trickled down my cheek and for one single crystallizing moment, the world was a better place.
But, the disappointment didn't even have the compassion to end there. Despite my heroic triumph over the Chest Buster and my peaceful return to anal normality, I was now left with an index finger that, no matter how many times I wash it, still smells like shit. Being ever the optimist though, I would argue that things aren't too bad. The poopy finger is ,after all, a small price to pay for the thwarting of a disgusting anatomical anomaly. And, provided I don't use my right hand to eat (also, note to self; burn this keyboard) for a while, it's smooth sailing from here on in.
[Edit: Shortly after posting this article, I completely forgot about my shitty finger situation and ate a bag of crisps - with my right hand. If you don't hear anything from me for the next two years, there's a good chance that I'm dead due to faecal matter consumption. Let it be known here though that, should that be the case, I want an open casket ceremony and I want the mortician to paint me up in blackface. Racially incentive? Totally. But I'll just be too dead to care about the backlash.
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