Rhoid Rage

Pictured: Slang for asshole

WARNING: The following includes what some may consider "too much information," specifically regarding my anatomy. I apologize. I have tried to keep it PG by using childish euphemisms and not being too visceral, but if you have a weak stomach perhaps this would be a good one to skip.

Consider yourself warned.

...

I'm only 31, but apparently that isn't too young to start having old man problems. The issue began last Friday. Darby and I were having a typical evening at home, staying up until almost 2 a.m. sewing/teaching me to sew,* when I started feeling a little sore on my bottom, particularly with the window-rattling flatus I was periodically experiencing. It didn't seem like a big deal at the time—we'd had Indian food for dinner and, being vegetarians, we are extremely gassy anyway—but there was a distinct stinging sensation down there as I prepared for bed.

I didn't sleep well at all. I woke up several times from the discomfort, and I could see that I hadn't moved all night. By morning I felt exhausted and was fairly certain my symptoms were more than the average bout of excess methane.

At first I tried to ignore it, even believing I might not have to tell Darby. However, it didn't take long for her to deduce something was wrong. For one thing, I was extremely edgy, bellowing at the dogs for walking through the piles I'd just made while sweeping the floors. The other giveaway was that I couldn't sit. I was just pacing and doing random chores to keep busy.

At one point Darby asked how I was doing, and I meekly admitted that I had something wrong on my butt. She sympathized and said pimples on one's butt can be very uncomfortable. I explained this wasn't a pimple, and described the location more accurately.

Until the moment Darby used the word "hemorrhoid," I was still in denial about it. It seemed impossible that it could happen to me, a regular guy. Granted, it's not a subject that comes up too often with my friends, but as far as I knew, I was too young and healthy for this to be happening. I thought it might just be an irritation or an allergy or something that would magically go away if I ignored it. And maybe it would've, but it turns out it's not that easy to ignore what feels like an intermittent pinch of pliers on your anus.

It's a cliché to feel embarrassed buying certain things in public, but I figure cashiers have seen it all. Once I was buying only a single, muscular cucumber, while the guy directly behind me was buying only a can of Redi-Whip. The cashier also noticed this and looked at both of us, trying to decide why we were paying separately. As I was paying, the urge to say something like, "Honey, I'll be in the car," was overwhelming, but I held it together.

Another instance of potential humiliation was the first time I bought condoms. They were locked away in a glass case, to prevent people from having sex through mortification I guess. In order to purchase them I had to first ask an employee to unlock them for me. Of course, the person I asked did not have a key to the case so they actually got onto the phone/loudspeaker rig and broadcast that "Jennie" was "needed at the condoms."

This stuff never bothers me. I figure I'll probably never see any of these people again. And even if I do, I'm just not all that concerned about the opinions of Walgreen's employees. Until now. Suddenly the prospect of standing in line with a tube of Western Family Ointment at nine in the morning seemed profoundly upsetting. Even laying the item on the conveyor belt seemed to be inviting too much scrutiny, so I just held it label-down against my thigh.

For obvious reasons, I went to the closest store possible. The problem with this decision is that I will see these people again. I see them all the time. The cashier was kind. She quickly scanned the item, flicked it into a bag and sent me on my way. Normally, she is extremely friendly, but I noticed she didn't look me in the eyes. From now on I will be that boy who has something wrong with his ass.

Even though Darby and I have been married for six years and have been through our share of embarrassing moments of intimacy, the act of going into the bathroom to apply the ointment was also singularly shameful. There is just something about knowing my wife knows I am, at this moment, smearing gel onto my butt hole that I found upsetting.

Again, I would like to apologize for the graphic nature of this story, but this was not even the worst part. No, the worst part was the actual application of the medicine because it is at this point that I first meet my new friend, the hemorrhoid.

I don't know what I thought a hemorrhoid was, or how it should look and feel, but I guess I expected it to be more like a small sore, something more akin to a nostril zit or some such ailment that causes a disproportionate amount of pain for its size. And perhaps some hemorrhoids are. Honestly, my knowledge of them is limited. What I do know is the thing that was now protruding from my pooper was quite a bit larger than I was expecting, and it definitely didn't want me rubbing anything onto it. Upon locating it, I audibly gasped.

I didn't get a mirror or anything, I'm not a weirdo, but if I had to guess I'd say my sphincter had assumed the shape of a coiled snake that had recently ingested a cow. And as with my real-life encounters with snakes, I got out of there as quickly as possible.

It's odd to feel so repelled by a part of one's own body. Even without swollen lumps, we use paper barriers in order to clean our butts, rather than just rinsing with soap and water like every other part. We are conditioned from an early age to think this is an unclean place, yet we let our dogs on the sofa and they don't even wear pants. Even the subject is taboo, as evidenced by the face you are likely making while reading this.

The worst part is, I am still not sure what brought this on. It was very sudden, and was not the result of anything irregular. I spent most of that day going over everything I've ingested in the past few days, becoming increasingly paranoid I had created an accidental, and therefore repeatable, combination of hemorrhoid-inducing foods. Was it the new green tea? The two bowls of granola? The flax meal in the granola? The ratatouille I made? Eggplant always gives me trouble...

Fortunately, after what was a fairly long day of hanging out of the couch, I think I am going to live. The ointment works (sort of), and my discomfort is slightly lessened. I even managed to go to a friend's house this evening, and they never once asked about strange postures or wincing.

Living with hemorrhoids is not so different from being a normal person, except I have to sit down and stand up more slowly, and every once in a while I get a shooting pain in my ass. The tricky part will be tomorrow when I have to go to school (obviously I won't be able to bike) and sit through two lectures on un-upholstered chairs. Wish me luck. I'll let you know how it goes. Or perhaps not.


* I don't know what it is about so-called woman's work that I enjoy so much. I think my estrogen levels must be too high from all the tofu and art school. I still like football and other guy stuff, but I noticed I tend to get weepy when Brett Favre retires every year.