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- Aug 19, 2003
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As told by Sac...
I have to tell this story, because I think it's a valuable lesson and I think maybe I can help others. That's why I went into medicine, after all. Well that's not true, but this is, every word of it.
So a couple weeks back, I had a cold. And maybe I wasn't drinking enough water, or maybe I was taking too many Tums, or maybe I was just eating too many hospital cafeteria cheeseburgers, but for whatever reason, I found myself in an acute state of constipation. I've never been constipated before, so I never understood what the big deal was. Okay, granny, you can't take a dump... good for you, that's an extra 5-10 minutes you can tack onto your day somewhere, not wasted on the crapper. But when it finally happens to you, you understand that the regularity of your bowels actually ranks right up there with having a functional brain stem in terms of quality-of-life. So I was sitting on the toilet and straining like a mother, and I was on the threshold if you know what I mean, but to no avail. I sat on that toilet for upwards of an hour, and expended enough calories to power a microwave on Thanksgiving Day. This was horrible. This was one of the most uncomfortable sensations of my life. This could not stand. So I buttoned up my pants and went out to the car, feeling all the while like at any given moment, any given moment, I could have an explosive bowel movement into my shorts. If only that were to be. I cruised down the road to a supermarket, dashed in and scanned the array of bowel products available. I had no time to dilly-dally, so I just grabbed a box of suppositories and another of oral laxatives and decided I'd figure it out later. Then I realized that I actually had to confront another human being with my purchases and give her money in exchange for stuff that I was shortly going to cram up my ass. A bored-looking high-school girl at the cash register was no doubt delighted to see a tall, hunched-over bald man approaching her, rather sweaty, grimacing, suppositories in hand. Whatever, kiss my ass sweety. You won't be 16 forever, someday you'll be an ancient 27 with creaky bowels. Home again with my slippery ass-bullets, I read the instructions on my box. Insert and retain for 15-20 minutes. I insert, and I retain. What to do for 15-20 minutes, though? I sort of pace around the bathroom. I go into my bedroom and get my latest issue of National Geographic. I'm standing in my bedroom wearing only a shirt, clenching my ass checks, reading about the secrets of the sunken Nazi cruise ship. Then I feel it happening, something horrible. I run to the toilet in dismay; whatever this was, it wasn't what I signed up for. The irresistible force was meeting some invisible, immovable object. I actually began to ponder, dizzily, "what if I need to go to the emergency room?" For what exactly, I wasn't sure. But it felt like an emergency. The pain was somewhat tremendous. I wanted to cry. Should I call my mom? Grown men can cry on the toilet and call their moms, right? What a minute, what the f**k am I thinking? I can get through this. Suddenly it's like I'm having a baby. I go into full tonic seizure, and I'm actually bouncing up and down on the toilet at about 3 Hz. I am serious. At some ill-defined point during this, I pull a muscle in my thigh. I am serious. (I limped for the next three days. People would ask me, "Why are you limping?" This is one of those situations where truth is not necessarily the best policy. I decided to maintain a modicum of decency and lie, saying that I hurt myself while masturbating.) Something incredible falls into the toilet with a resounding splash. I'm panting, utterly spent. My ass is absolutely killing me, and there is no doubt in my mind: I have sprung a hemorrhoid of redoubtable size. I wipe the beads from my face and gingerly get back in the car. I can't live like this, and I know what I need. I've seen the commercials. We all have. I drive back to the supermarket and grab a giant tube of Preparation H, a bag of epsom salts and a bottle of dietary fiber supplement. I'll give the bored-looking high-school chick props... she didn't immediately vomit all over herself. She was a total professional about it. She did said, "Have a nice night" as I leaving, which was sort of a bitchy thing to say to a man who clearly just had a life-changing bathroom experience, but I didn't really realize it until later that evening when I was sitting naked in the bathtub in about four inches of salty water, finishing the article on the sunken Nazi ship.
Well, I'll leave you with this. Preparation H is truly a fantastic product. I'm doing a lot better, although I still get nervous every time I sit on the toilet. I wonder if it'll ever go away. I wonder if I'll ever be okay again.
__________
I have to tell this story, because I think it's a valuable lesson and I think maybe I can help others. That's why I went into medicine, after all. Well that's not true, but this is, every word of it.
So a couple weeks back, I had a cold. And maybe I wasn't drinking enough water, or maybe I was taking too many Tums, or maybe I was just eating too many hospital cafeteria cheeseburgers, but for whatever reason, I found myself in an acute state of constipation. I've never been constipated before, so I never understood what the big deal was. Okay, granny, you can't take a dump... good for you, that's an extra 5-10 minutes you can tack onto your day somewhere, not wasted on the crapper. But when it finally happens to you, you understand that the regularity of your bowels actually ranks right up there with having a functional brain stem in terms of quality-of-life. So I was sitting on the toilet and straining like a mother, and I was on the threshold if you know what I mean, but to no avail. I sat on that toilet for upwards of an hour, and expended enough calories to power a microwave on Thanksgiving Day. This was horrible. This was one of the most uncomfortable sensations of my life. This could not stand. So I buttoned up my pants and went out to the car, feeling all the while like at any given moment, any given moment, I could have an explosive bowel movement into my shorts. If only that were to be. I cruised down the road to a supermarket, dashed in and scanned the array of bowel products available. I had no time to dilly-dally, so I just grabbed a box of suppositories and another of oral laxatives and decided I'd figure it out later. Then I realized that I actually had to confront another human being with my purchases and give her money in exchange for stuff that I was shortly going to cram up my ass. A bored-looking high-school girl at the cash register was no doubt delighted to see a tall, hunched-over bald man approaching her, rather sweaty, grimacing, suppositories in hand. Whatever, kiss my ass sweety. You won't be 16 forever, someday you'll be an ancient 27 with creaky bowels. Home again with my slippery ass-bullets, I read the instructions on my box. Insert and retain for 15-20 minutes. I insert, and I retain. What to do for 15-20 minutes, though? I sort of pace around the bathroom. I go into my bedroom and get my latest issue of National Geographic. I'm standing in my bedroom wearing only a shirt, clenching my ass checks, reading about the secrets of the sunken Nazi cruise ship. Then I feel it happening, something horrible. I run to the toilet in dismay; whatever this was, it wasn't what I signed up for. The irresistible force was meeting some invisible, immovable object. I actually began to ponder, dizzily, "what if I need to go to the emergency room?" For what exactly, I wasn't sure. But it felt like an emergency. The pain was somewhat tremendous. I wanted to cry. Should I call my mom? Grown men can cry on the toilet and call their moms, right? What a minute, what the f**k am I thinking? I can get through this. Suddenly it's like I'm having a baby. I go into full tonic seizure, and I'm actually bouncing up and down on the toilet at about 3 Hz. I am serious. At some ill-defined point during this, I pull a muscle in my thigh. I am serious. (I limped for the next three days. People would ask me, "Why are you limping?" This is one of those situations where truth is not necessarily the best policy. I decided to maintain a modicum of decency and lie, saying that I hurt myself while masturbating.) Something incredible falls into the toilet with a resounding splash. I'm panting, utterly spent. My ass is absolutely killing me, and there is no doubt in my mind: I have sprung a hemorrhoid of redoubtable size. I wipe the beads from my face and gingerly get back in the car. I can't live like this, and I know what I need. I've seen the commercials. We all have. I drive back to the supermarket and grab a giant tube of Preparation H, a bag of epsom salts and a bottle of dietary fiber supplement. I'll give the bored-looking high-school chick props... she didn't immediately vomit all over herself. She was a total professional about it. She did said, "Have a nice night" as I leaving, which was sort of a bitchy thing to say to a man who clearly just had a life-changing bathroom experience, but I didn't really realize it until later that evening when I was sitting naked in the bathtub in about four inches of salty water, finishing the article on the sunken Nazi ship.
Well, I'll leave you with this. Preparation H is truly a fantastic product. I'm doing a lot better, although I still get nervous every time I sit on the toilet. I wonder if it'll ever go away. I wonder if I'll ever be okay again.
__________
