I’ve been wracking my brain to figure out how to set this scene and this is what I came up with: The other day I “dropped the kids off at the pool” and it the “pool” turned out to be more like “the elevator from the Shining.”
(other rejected ideas: “a few days ago I had a long sit on the throne and the finished product was way more colorful than normal. And by “colorful” I mean mostly brown and bright red.” OR “recently I was taking a dump and started my period. Out of my butt.”)
Anyway, I went to my doctor and she tends to be very “It’s probably this little thing, but just in case I’m going to also check that it’s not this very BIG THING.” And by “BIG THING” she meant colon cancer. I’m very happy to make sure that I don’t have colon cancer, because I’d like to have no cancer at all. It’s just a decision I made a long time ago: I want to avoid any and all cancer-like-things. However the steps involved in making sure that you don’t have colon cancer involve getting stuck. A lot of sticking. And not any of the good kinds.
So first I got stuck by needles. Funny thing about me: I have a tremendous clotting ability. Seriously, I’ve had to give up donating blood because I’m always clotting before we get the full unit. So Mr. Blood Drawing Dude (or MBDD) stuck me in both arms, and failed to even fill a test tube, and finally resorted to sticking an IV needle in the back of my hand.
This was a first time for that trick for me, so I says to him “hey, I’ve never had blood drawn from the back of the hand. Does it hurt more or less than the arm?”
And he says “Hmmmm. It depends really…”
And I says “No, no, no, that’s not the right answer! You’re supposed to say “oh heck, it hurts WAY less than the arm does!” No matter what, that’s what you say!”
“Oh! Then oh heck, it hurts WAY less than the arm does!”
“Well you can’t say that NOW!!! NOW I KNOW you’re bullsh*ting me! What, are you new or something?”
A week after I got poked in both arms and the back of the hand (oh, and for the record? It doesn’t depend on anything. It hurts more on the back of the hand. It just does. Works pretty well, but hurts super-crappy. I’m just sayin’.) I had to go to a Gastroenterologist. She was a lovely person and very witty and charming and very clear and all of this really doesn’t matter at ALL once she started sticking things up my poop-shoot! There’s no way to charmingly wedge something inside the out-door, know what I’m sayin’? I mean, I’ve prided myself on keeping that particular avenue as an “out only” orifice! (I know that’s kind of a strange thing to pride oneself upon, but you take your pride where you can get it, people! That door goes ONE WAY!)
What I’m saying is that all the parts of my rear that are designed as a defensive line are SERIOUS about it! When there’s any kind of rear invasion all kinds of walls and fences and locks come into play, and they will not be dissuaded! So here’s me, standing pantsless in this brand new doctor’s office, trying very hard to distract my ass from it’s whole job by looking out the window. At the parking garage across the street. And the random stranger there, obviously locked out of their car. Trying to shove their arm inside the little window gap they’ve left. WHICH IS ENTIRELY TOO SIMILAR TO WHAT’S GOING ON BEHIND ME AND PROVIDES NO DISTRACTION AT ALL!!!!
The good news is that all the various medical poking-people reached the same (extremely intrusive!) conclusion: I have no cancer, but instead a pretty impressive case of mystery hemorrhoids. (I call them “mystery hemorrhoids” because when the doctor ran down the list of all the things that can CAUSE hemorrhoids I came up zip for zip. I’m one of those precious few who can just get hemorrhoids. From nothing. Whipdee-friggin’-doodlepants.) The bad news is the treatment: I get to stick something up my butt.
Twice a day.
For a week.
I’m pretty sure I’m just gonna stick with the hemorrhoids.
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