piles for Christmas

My old ass has been hurting me for a few weeks now. Working in Olde Towne requires a two block walk to the potty when nature calls. If you combine that fact with my recent affair with a particular milk stout I’ve grown fond of you get a doubling of my colonic output. I don’t think I have a problem with lactose, but they brew this beer with that milk sugar, and it gives me the boiled egg farts something awful. Hot and moist, they frequently come, from the third beer on into sleep. Sometimes they follow me into my working morn. I don’t mind really. Anyone who claims they don’t enjoy the smell of their own winds is a lying bastard. The thing is I also have I.B.S., or irritable bowel syndrome. Constant changes in my BM schedule and frequency are commonplace as it is. I have brushed against the world of piles a few times in my forties, but none was as brutal, as fiery as this recent outbreak. Four days ago I asked my wife to get me some hemorrhoid cream and medicated wipes, as I could no longer stand the pain. I felt debilitated; every step, every attempt to sit down proved to be a slow, painful crash. I can’t bend over or down, can’t tie my shoes or pick up the loose pasta elbows my daughters spit under the dining room table. This sucks. After getting all the Santa Claus junk ready, and helping with the unbinding of the various death colored dolls and fantastical princesses blinking there, behind the plastic, I headed to the emergency room. What a treat; Christmas Day at the ER. The only good thing was that I was one of only three people in there. There was an older, Latino couple; the woman of which was in the triage when I arrived. Then there was just myself and this other woman who rushed in wearing dark sunglasses, old jeans and those furry boots the kids like down here when it’s cold. She didn’t really look older, but in a Jersey kind of way, looked a bit more aged than me. She may have been younger. Her backside looked alright. I noticed as she turned her gaze toward me before talking to the attendant behind the check in window. She looked at me as if she was hiding something, or maybe she was surveying the room, and then the water works started. I don’t know what was wrong with her, I am half deaf, but she was babbling and crying pretty well. After she got her magic hospital bracelet she went to sit with her accompanist who I never got a look at. The sobbing remained audible though, until a few minutes later when Trisha, the triage nurse stepped out and called my name; “Mr. Butler…?” I got up slowly and limped over to greet her. She got the info from the front desk clerk about my pains. She was also at least in her forties, and an admitted mother, so I imagine she had suffered herself. She gave me more facts about ‘the human condition’ than anyone I have ever met. She used words like varicose veins, thrombosis and proctoscope. I was both amazed and terrified. I didn’t really care what they were going to do. Maybe they would lance them, or drain them. Maybe the rubber band technique, rubber band ligation, whereby they take one or two small rubber bands and wrap them around the hemorrhoid, cutting off the blood flow and within a week or so it withers and falls off. What will it be? I wondered. Once back in the room the nurse and doctor were both there quickly. They had very little else to do. They had me quickly lose the jeans and put on the super fancy hospital gown. First the doctor informed me that he was sorry, but he would have to perform a rectal exam. I told him that I was the sorry one; he shouldn’t have to look at my behind on Christmas. He shrugged it off as all in a day’s work, but really, must be one of the least favorite jobs in there. So anyway, he tells me to sit on the table, avoiding pressure on my ‘hiney’, and to roll over onto my left side and pull my knees up to my chest. Before entry he said it didn’t look like I had an external problem, just a lot of cracking. I still don’t know what the hell that meant. So then came ‘the pinch’; he inserted his gloved finger up into my glory hole and then spun it around a bit. I just tried to relax and breathe. He was done fairly quickly. He told me that the masses were inside and that I should maybe seek the treatment of my gastroenterologist. “Masses…?” I asked. “Well you have to understand, I can only ‘feel’ this deep, showing me the length of his pointer finger, “I can’t see what’s going on up there…you need a lighted scope for that. Also, are you at high risk for colon or rectal cancer?” “Yeah, my mom is dying from it right now.” I said. “Well, I usually recommend that anyone that has high risk factors get a colonoscopy by age forty-five…” “I had one at forty, three uppers and one lower…” I interrupted, proudly. “Great!” he replied. We’re going to give you a prescription in the mean time; it’s a suppository that you’ll use once in the morning and once at night. It will numb you and help with the discomfort. It’s strange though…” he went on. “What’s strange?” I asked him. “Well, usually internal hemorrhoids don’t cause pain, just bleeding like you have. Anyway, just go see Dr. Farber in Elizabeth City after the holiday, okay?” he finished gleefully. “Will do doc, thanks…Merry Christmas!” and I was out of there. The day was looking up until I hit the pharmacy. I have terrible insurance. The pharmacists took all my info and I wandered about looking for the other things I needed, stool softener, a sits bath, you know- the good stuff. He called me over and explained that the drug prescribed was not covered by my insurance. I thanked him for his help and excused myself. I have had this issue before. I have this problem every time I get a script. I usually have to call the doctor, and then he/she has to call the insurance folks and do an override, tell them all the over the counter stuff won’t work. But it was Christmas day, not much headway to be made I thought. I began driving home when I decided to call the hospital and see if the doc could prescribe something else. Everyone involved knows all too well the struggle we faced. The doc told me to go back to the pharmacy and have him call, and that he would prescribe something different. My disdain turned again to the hope of relief. I couldn’t wait to shove the magic bullet into my rectum. But it was not to be; the pharmacist called me over again and explained that he and the doc had gone through several medications and NONE of them was covered. I was left with the collective expression from all of the professionals that I was screwed, and would have to wait several days, at least until the first of the year to get and rectification. One might think that being told that you have hemorrhoids or something else, maybe ass cancer growing in your poop shoot, would be a disconcerting turn of events, but not this guy. I had the makings of a brilliant story, better than this one; one of mental scars and comic noir. You see, a couple nights ago, when the pain was a solid ten on the hospital triage chart; I was in the throwing room doing the after-drop routine. I had, in addition to the medicated wipes and ointment, some leftover Benzocaine spray from the last time my wife gave birth. I figured it would work. So here is the scene: me in the bathroom after cleansing the area with warm, moist toilet tissue, patting dry and then wiping with the medicated wipes. I was a step away from the ointment part, the part of the booty fire ritual that involves the spraying of Benzocaine onto the brown eye. So there I was, poised and readied, trou dropped and bending over to widen the gap, so to speak. I was shaking the spray can when I heard the door knob turning. “Daddy is on the potty!” I shouted frantically, “I’ll be out soon, I’ll help you then!” The knob kept turning, it was Ella. “Emmy needs you daddy, she is stuck in the deep water and we need to rescue her!” “Ella, I will be out soon! Stay away from the door!” feeling nervous and rushed now. “I’m not Ella! I’m DIEGO!” she replied and then it happened. The knob turned and the door swung wide. There she stood one hand on the door knob, one in her hair to keep it out of her eyes. “Daddy, what is that?” she asked. Embarrassed now and looking at her upside down, through my knees I yelled “NEVER MIND, CLOSE THE DOOR PLEASE!” but she didn’t, not until the wife, laughing hysterically came and pulled her away. “I’m sorry” she snorted and chortled walking away. And that was it. My daughter, probably scarred for life from seeing a hairy full moon, complete with gargoyle and daddy bent over aiming a spray can at his bottom bull’s-eye. I laughed when it was over, but it wasn’t all that funny really. I learned a lesson anyway, and had another reinforced; no matter the ill, booty cancer or the piles; when in the bathroom cleansing a soiled thrombosis, it might be a good idea to lock the door. Also, put NO trust in the medical community, no matter what. Sorry Ella, you’ll be able to un-see that some day. I promise.