After suffering from extreme hemorrhoidal discomfort for years [read Part 1 here], I finally told my doctor to shove his hippy holistic attitude and refer me to someone who could remove the little buttock beasts.
I wanted someone who was at the top of his game. I needed a proctological prodigy who excelled not only in the technical aspects of butt medicine, but also had a keen understanding of the Zen of booties. Had I known what I was in for, though, I would have just asked him to refer me to someone with really tiny fingers who'd read the hemorrhoid article on Wikipedia.
The Perilous Palace of Proctology
I thought I was going to the doctor for a consultation. There would be some questions, some answers, and possibly a brief, albeit memorable, trouserless meet-and-greet session. I was prepared for some minor discomfort, but felt that I could handle it, having been an aficionado of Mexican food my entire life.
I sensed things were about to go very wrong once the doctor called the nurse and ordered me to drop my pants and bend over the bench. As he broke out the gloves, I repressed a whimper as I knew things never ended well once the latex hand coverings were whipped out. It didn't matter if you were in a doctor's office or the interrogation room of a major international airport; the audible crack of latex against the wrist was an undeniable omen that someone was about to have a VERY bad day.
My normal coping mechanism in an awkward social situation is to joke my way out of it. This time I was caught by surprise. I threw a couple of panicked glances around the room and tried to find a focal point -- something I learned in my wife's Lamaze classes.
Before I could find a focal point, however, I heard my doctor's Mumbai-accented voice say, "You want to relax yourself now."
"Sure doc," I started. "Whatever you sa ... OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO SWEET MAGNOLIA MOTHER OF F#$%!!!!! JUH!-JUH!-JUH!-JUH!-JUST WAIT ONE %$@#-ING MINU ... AAAAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!! YOU SAVAGE WAD OF RANCID MONKEY SPUNK!!! Oh my God! HAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIYAAAAHHHHH!!!! #$!#&?...*#@!& !!! *$&#@!!! #*$(@!!" Apparently, in order to cure my hemorrhoid problem, my doctor had to induce me with a debilitating case of Tourette's.
I wasn't sure how much of the outburst was said out loud, or how much of it was intelligible, but I have to give the doctor credit for being completely unrattled. I buried my face and added yet another set of teeth marks to the vinyl pillow at the non-hemorrhoidal end of the bench.
Not much has changed about vinyl upholstery since the 1970's -- including the flavor.
Throughout the examination, the doctor kept describing what he was doing. Between his thick accent, unfamiliar medical terms, and trying to keep myself from defecating all over the gentleman, I was not really paying much attention. At one point I heard him use the term "rectum" to which I tried to respond with the obligatory "Wrecked him? It damn near killed him!" But since I had a mouthful of paper bench covering, it came out like, "Ngwrif doodim? Nif bum nwir bilfd im!"
He finally warned me that he would be inserting a scope. I never saw the device, but judging from the way it felt, it may have been manufactured by the same people who brought us the Hubble space telescope. I tried to protest, but my crying swears sounded like Minnie Mouse fresh out of a six-year stint in the Navy.
Finally, I was told there were three hemorrhoids he had to take care of, and he could do so right there on the spot ... using rubber bands. He tried to explain the procedure in detail, but overwhelmed with the sensation that I was on the verge of blowing from every orifice, I snapped at him to shut up and do whatever it took to get me the hell out of there.
Thirty seconds later, he was done. I had a ligated hemorrhoid, and one more reason why I never wanted to spend any time showering in prison.
Please continue on to Part 3: The Aftermath!
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