Prepare yourself for the following story.
Over the course of my thirtysomething years, my lungs have blown more smoke than a member of the Kennedy clan under subpoena during a paternity lawsuit. My liver has processed enough booze to have scared Boris Yeltsin into the Lindsay Lohan suite of the Betty Ford Clinic. And my digestive tract has been subjected to things that would make a UN biological weapons inspector shiver.
It's no wonder that I'm coming apart quicker than a leprotic lab rat going for a leisurely spin in a high-powered food processor. And as I approach 40, I'm discovering that growing old can be a tremendous pain in the ass. Unfortunately, I mean that quite literally.
This is the true-life comedy story of my hemmorhoids.
Hemorrhoid Fact: George Brett left Game 2 of the 1980 world series because of hemorrhoid pain.
As I grew older, I expected to start running into health issues: high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and the various pops and whistles that my bones now make when I get out of bed. What I didn't expect was the sensation of passing broken glass during my morning constitutional, and an ever-present posterior itch. I mean, my butt itched with excruciating intensity: a Third World red light district itch.
Hemorrhoid Fact: Napoleon Bonaparte suffered from hemorrhoids, which explains his unpleasant disposition. A nasty flare up prevented him from mounting his horse to survey the field before the Battle of Waterloo in 1815, and may have contributed to his defeat. ("Merde! Mon #$&!?@ derriere!")
In fact, it was the itching that sent me groveling to my doctor. An ordinary hemorrhoid flare-up could be painful, but it was brief and private. Unless I forgot to lock the bathroom door, no one was going to see my face contorted into a tortured grimace while I shredded the wallpaper with my toenails. If someone did walk in on me, they would likely write it off as a battle with some bad gouda (everyone has been there).
A maddening itch, on the other hand, could surface at any time -- and there is no socially acceptable method for relieving the discomfort. Let's face facts: if I leapt out of my seat during a business meeting, stuck both hands down the back of my pants, then thrust my pelvis forward while scratching my backside so violently that my left leg did the "canine kick" before running out of the building to find a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream to cool the itching, there would be serious consequences. For starters, I'd be the first person in history to get 86'd from Ben & Jerry's for sticking ice cream down my pants.
Despite such serious penalties, it often took every ounce of self-control not to scratch myself in public. So a few months ago, I grabbed my doctor by the lapels, told him where he could shove his Preparation H suggestion (which is where Preparation H goes anyway, so not much of an insult), and demanded a referral to someone who could remove my 'roids.
Unfortunately, that's when the real pain began.
Please continue on to Part 2: The Surgery!
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