IT'S AN OUT HOLE!

Just when life is settling down in to some semblance of normality, I discover that I have haemorrhoids.

Isn’t this a wonderful topic of discussion?

The dysfunctional tendencies of my body seem to provide a great source of entertainment, particularly to Charlie.  Seriously; what else can go wrong?

The strange thing though, is that I have no pain or discomfort, unless of course I try to use my poop-shoot.  Then it’s game on.

Apart from that, I’m okay.

So, whilst in the doctors clinic the other day, I found myself lying on my side facing a blank wall, on an examination table that was about as wide as a skate board, with my doctor’s finger up my arse.

‘You know… this takes our relationship to a completely new level of intimacy …’ I said calmly.

The woman I’ve known for over eight years, who has steered me through some pretty serious shit, found that comment incredibly amusing.  Great.

‘You could’ve at least bought me dinner first…’

‘You have internal haemorrhoids, Lee.  Go to the chemist next door, and get some cream.  Give it a couple of weeks, and we’ll see how we go.’

No problems.

I stroll into the chemist, and start desperately scanning the shelves for any form of cream that will help me.  Hopefully, I can find it before some smarmy twelve year old asks me if she can help me.

‘Can I assist you?’ one of the sales staff asked, sneaking up on me like a friggin’ ninja.  Thankfully, she’s not twelve (unlike the ultrasound dude from the other day).

‘Yes you can.’ I smile, thinking to myself that I’ve just had my doctors’ finger and some other instrument up my arse; there is pretty much nothing I can get embarrassed about now.  ‘I’m after some haemorrhoid cream.’

‘Is it for yourself?’ she asked discreetly. 

Like that makes a difference, I thought.  Yes! I have fucken hemmies! Help me here! I wanted to scream.  ‘Indeed it is.’  She walked behind the counter and grabbed a box of ointment, and came back to me. 

‘This is just a basic cream that’s quite effective.  Are they internal or external?’

‘Internal.’

‘There’s an applicator in the box that will assist you in applying the cream.’

Whoa.  Stop the fucken press.  An applicator?  No one said anything about a fucken applicator!

‘No worries.’ I mumble, hand over my hard earned, and bolt from the pharmacy.

An applicator?  This better not mean what I think if friggin’ means.

I rip open the discreet brown paper bag that thankfully disguises my embarrassing ‘condition’ from the general public, and examine the directions on the box. 

Holy shit.  I have to use an applicator to ‘insert’ the cream.  What. The. Fuck.  I have to insert something into my arse to apply this cream?

It’s a fucken out hole!  You don’t put things into it!  IT’S AN OUT HOLE!

Surely I can rub it around the area or something?  Surely I don’t have to stick anything into myself?  How the hell am I going to do this?  I can’t stick something in my own butt?  I can’t even come at the idea of friggin’ tampons (not that I need them).  How the hell am I going to do this?

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!

Three days.  Three days that box of Rectinol has been sitting on my vanity unit at home, and I just can’t do it.

Every time I pick the box up, I freak out, and walk away.

Every time we go to bed, Charlie picks up the box and says ‘Have you started using your cream yet?’ whilst waving it at me.  Fucker.

‘Clearly fucken not.’  He finds this most amusing.  ‘Go fuck yourself.  I’ll do it when I’m ready.’ I declare.

I believe I could stitch myself up if I had to.  I can change dressings on serious wounds or surgical incisions.  I don’t blanch if someone else has cut or injured themselves and needs attention.  It doesn’t bother me to have injections or drips inserted into my arms, wrists, legs, hands or feet; have had that many.  Invasive tests or scans don’t really bother me (except fucken mammograms). The concept of surgery doesn’t bother me.  The concept of death doesn’t bother me.

But I cannot stick this little tube up my arse.

‘Charlie, I’ve got a problem.’ I said the other day as I strolled into the back room, where Charlie was playing on the computer.

‘What?’

‘I can’t stick this tube of Rectinol up my arse.’

Charlie’s head snapped around in a heartbeat.  ‘Don’t look at me! I’m not doing it for you!’

‘Calm down man…’

‘I love you and all, but there are just some places on your body I don’t want to know about!’

‘Calm the fuck down.’  He just looked at me.  ‘I am struggling here.  I don’t know what do to.’

‘Have a fucken mug of concrete, and just do it.’

‘Oh, you’re a wonderful help.’

‘Well, what else can I say?’

‘If I was dying, would you do it for me?’

‘Yes, but you’re not dying.’ He points out, quite confident with himself.

‘What am I supposed to do?  I don’t know what to do?’

‘Harden the fuck up and just do it.’

‘You’re no help. Go fuck yourself.’

So, later that afternoon, I go into the ensuite, and see the little box sitting there, and decide ‘this is it.’  I shut the ensuite door, assemble the stupid fucken applicator, and drop my strides.  I’m ready to rock.

Suddenly, there’s a gentle knock at the ensuite door.  What the fuck?  ‘Yes?’ I sigh.

‘Lee, can I show you my new blaa blaa blaaa…’ Jade was yabbering away from the other side of the door.  Thank fuck she didn’t open it.

‘Not right at this point in time, champ.  Give me five minutes.’

‘Okay.’ She chirps, and a few moments later, I hear her footsteps carry her away.

Every other minute of the day, she does her best to friggin’ ignore me.  Why does she pick that exact moment to hunt me down?  Thank God she didn’t open the door.  She’d need therapy for the next ten years to get over that sight.  It would burn into her retinas, and haunt her so much that she’d end up clawing her eyes out in desperation….

*sigh

Five jittery minutes later, I emerge from the ensuite a changed woman.  After that kind of intimate experience with oneself, you’re never going to be the same again.

Though, it wasn’t so bad.  Now I just have to resign myself to the fact I have to do this shit to myself twice a day for the next fucken week.

I think I’ll be the one that needs therapy to recover from this.

Peace out.