I thought for Thanksgiving I’d depart slightly from the traditional Android-type post and present this story of “thankfulness,” hopefully for your enjoyment. This post was originally shared on my wife’s private family blog on June 13, 2010.
FYI: THIS POST CONTAINS FAR TOO MUCH INFORMATION ON A PARTICULARLY PRIVATE MATTER. IF YOU’RE EASILY OFFENDED, GROSSED OUT, OR YOU GET EASILY UPSET WHEN PEOPLE SHARE TOO MUCH ABOUT THEIR PRIVATE LIVES, SKIP THIS POST. I EXPECT NO COMMENTS ON THE GROSSNESS OR “OVERSHARING” OF THIS POST. IF NOT, OR YOU’RE SOME PERVERTED PEEPING TOM, PLEASE ENJOY.
There are far too many signs in one’s life that you’re getting old. Sagging parts, wrinkly skin, excessive hair-loss and balding, not-so-dashing good looks, weight gain, and medical problems. Unfortunately, each of us faces our own (or multiple) old-age-foes. My condolences to those readers who suffer from one, if not many, of these problems.
Fortunately, I’m the epitome of good health and good looks. Those “routine” problems have not affected my stunning good looks, nor my physical or mental health.
That is, until recently. I finally got a taste of what old age is like. Please take me back! Wednesday started like any other routine day. I woke up, ran
40 0 miles, ate a healthy breakfast (I think we made nutritious portions of biscuits and gravy), and left for work. The day seemed like any other normal day.
My normalcy changed though about 3 p.m., when I started feeling a significant pain in my arse (no it wasn’t my family). The slow ache centered (literally) on or near that excrement hole. I gingerly negotiated a trip to the pizza store, and a picnic with my kids, while my wife tended to our Cub Scout responsibilities.
By 7, the pain was nearly unbearable. For the next hour, I comforted my arse by sitting and relieving the pressure and pain. I suffered the rest of the evening with doses of Tylenol and ibuprofen, mixed with some teaspoon shots of some other left-over liquid pain-killer.
My wife, being the ever perceptive but untrained physician, quietly commented that she thought I had a hemorrhoid. “A hemorrhoid,” I said. “I thought that’s what old people get, or at least my parents. Young and strapping lads like me, we don’t get those.” My wife pulled out the prescription-strength hemorrhoid cream she’d used during Thing 2’s pregnancy, and flashed me a smile.
“HOLY SH**!” I thought. “You suffered with one of these for 9 months. YOU’RE A GOD OF PAIN!”
We retired to bed. Me miserable, my wife surely gloating in the satisfaction of sweet revenge — sweet revenge is best served on others, not on yourself.
On Thursday, I attended to my work duties, with the tube of cream in hand, followed with a diligent regimen of 800 mg of pain meds. I didn’t think the pain could get worse, but let me assure you that when you get a “hemi” in your arse, it probably packs as much pain power on day 2 as the HEMI-charged Dodge vehicles.
On Friday, I cried.
I finally had to poop, and the pain that I believed couldn’t get worse, finally did. I nearly threw up.
I don’t know why we don’t use torturous activities like these to make people talk. I’ve decided that wouldn’t make a good secret agent after this experience. I’d have to take the suicide pill because I couldn’t keep silent through hours, days, or months of torture. Everyone talks, and I’d sing like a canary with one of these babies. Sorry CIA recruiter, I can’t join.
After my near-death experience, I felt fine. Like a new man. The worst was over. In fact, I was more productive at work than I’d been in 3 days.
I came home, walked in the door, and before giving me a kiss, my wife asked, “what’s all over your butt?” “Dropping trow,” I found a brownish-red spot soaked through on my pants. I discovered that my underwear contained a significantly larger bloody mess.
“HOLY SH**!” I said. “You women go through this kind of craziness once-per-month!” I feared I’d either die from blood loss, or need to constantly change a maxi pad to contain the mess. There’s nothing like blood coming from the nether-regions to make you feel less manly.
On the bright side, the pain was nearly all gone.
Relief didn’t last long though, and Saturday surprised me with anal pain and bleeding.
I made a quick decision to visit the instacare for treatment. Yes, unfortunately the solve all internet could not send me enough information to provide advice — except if you count the “get to a doctor, that’s serious” statements.
At the instacare, the doctor confirmed the existence of a thrombosed hemorrhoid (Google it, not cool). Not just 1, but 3.
Apparently, the hemorrhoid had filled with blood clots, which caused the pain (more than normal) and bleeding. Until the clots got removed, I’d continue to have pain and bleeding.
The process for removing the clots is called a thrombectomy.
Basically, it involves grabbing the hemorrhoid, tearing it out of the anal cavity, and squeezing it like a zit until it gooshes (the medical term) out. CLINCH YOUR BUTT CHEEKS BECAUSE IT’S AS PAINFUL AS IT SOUNDS — don’t drool you zit-picking lovers, it isn’t nearly as fun for the recipient, although you’d probably enjoy it immensely.
Remember too, the only way to access, or get good access to, the effected area is by having the patient squat partially naked on all fours like a dog — now wipe that picture of me out of your mind.
The doctor used a local anesthetic (yep, inserted again into the anus — CLINCH EVEN TIGHTER) to try and numb the area for the upcoming pain.
When I still felt pain, the doctor followed the local with a “freezing” spray, which also didn’t work. Then the doctor ordered the “heavy” meds, and informed me I’d need to get a ride home.
The IV meds didn’t work either, so I just gritted my teeth, sweating heavily, and tried not to pass out.
Note to the CIA: I think I could bear a little bit of torture, but if I could have stopped it by spilling my guts, it’s done.
As if to comfort me a bit more, the doctor did say that it was the biggest — apparently they’re quite common — thrombosed hemorrhoid she’d ever seen. Apparently, it was the size of your two thumbs put together. If you have big thumbs, then it was huge. If you have small thumbs, add 1 or 2 more, just to make the story better.
Oh yeah, did I mention that I displayed all my glory in front of another woman? And I didn’t care.
Now I understand why women giving birth give up all dignity to get the job done.
Following the procedure, I felt immediate relief. The best I’d felt in 4 days. I went home, slept a while to wear off the narcotics, then relaxed for the remainder of the evening. There was a slight pain that night (she might not have got everything), but in the morning, everything was perfect, except for the remainder of the bleeding. WHAT A RELIEF! Certainly the best $500 I’ve ever spent!
There’s really no pain I’ve ever felt that amounted to this experience. I learned a few lessons:
- NEVER GET HEMORRHOIDS!
- If you do, get a powerful pain medication, and find someone to cater to you as you lay on the couch.
- If you bleed, go to the doctor. Grit your teeth, get the thrombectomy done. 150% relief.
- If you’re grossed out by this, you probably shouldn’t have read it. Go back to the top & read the disclaimer.
Now, aren’t you glad you’ll be eating a big dinner of delicious turkey, stuffing, and trimmings?