Ben Morrison blogs with an abundance of humor about Crohn's disease.See all posts »
This Thing Behind My Back Door
Crohn’s comic Ben Morrison shares more intimate details about a “rage-grape” that’s recently been knocking down his back door.
We both knew it was coming. I had made an emergency "day of" appointment with my GP to get the stinging bulge in my rectum looked at, and having finished describing it, it was time to show it to my doctor. With a disturbing nonchalance I dropped my jeans, spun around and bent over his examination table, hoping that I had done a proper job of wiping a couple of hours before. As the rubber glove finished slipping over his pointy finger, he slid it into my tender tunnel sending lightening bolts of pain shooting up through my spine. He turned his finger a little to make sure he had found he right spot.
"That's it", I chortled, still reeling from the butt up. "That's it."
It was the worst hemorrhoid I had ever had. Now I'm no stranger to the ring of fire, but this puppy was a survivor. Fully protruding from my ass it was, in the words of my doctor, "about the size of a grape". When protrusions are being described in terms of fruit, you know you have a problem. Pain-wise it packed a mean punch, the sting varying from "this hurts, but if I think about not thinking about it I can appear normal" to "there's a throwing star in my hole." I was not prepared for it to hurt this much, but I hadn't had many throwing stars in my hole with which to prepare me.
Picking up the tube of foaming hydrocortisone cream, I cowboy-walked back to my apartment ready to get some payback and perhaps sit without wincing. Once finished washing, I fumbled with the tube of foam, struggling to load it into the syringe I was supposed insert like taking a toddlers temperature. With an audible squirt, it shot up inside me and the healing began. Slowly. Very, very slowly.
Because like I said, this guy was a survivor. The product of my intestinal obstruction making me push so hard I look like the Hulk trying to crap, this was a ‘roid on ‘roids. The first couple of days, I wasn't even sure the medication was doing anything. My rage-grape was throat-kicking the medicine just for the fun of it. Ironically, my lack of movement led me to weeks of stationary consumption, making me then push even harder as my bowels were full of sloth. And all the while my ‘roid sat in its throne, laughing at its good view and stabbing at the walls for entertainment.
But work the medication did. Like an air-balloon deflating at the end of a tour, slowly the syringes of foam I shot up my butt began to do something other than make me feel shame. With cautious pokes in the shower, I began to feel it receding back into me, ready to inflame the next time it chooses to occupy three weeks of my comfort. Knowing it's there and ready to pounce though, I now exhibit far more caution when I duke. Instead of trying to force it out like a middle-age son living in the basement, I now patiently sit and open the door, willing to let whatever pilgrims see fit to venture have their exit. I'm fine with taking it easy on myself for a change, because the next time it could be the size of a vegetable.
And vegetables can get to be very big.
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