Before I embark on what will be - and I say this as a warning rather than an apology - a brutally frank and crude example of over-sharing, I should point out that this post is not about our nation’s under-appreciated agriculturalists. I use the term ‘farmers’ much as my Dad always does, as rhyming slang for piles. So, please, please, please, if you are sensitive to subject matter related to the anus, or prone to over-visualise subject matter as you read it, then hit the back up button now.
I went to the doctor yesterday. And the whole experience provided extensive fodder for a comedic blog post. Because, as avid readers will remember, anything to do with bums makes me laugh.
I booked an appointment with my GP, because I had a lump up my bum. First time. Needed to rule out arse cancer. Best be on the safe side. And for years my wife had repeatedly said that I needed to see a doctor about my arse, because she finds my levels of flatulence completely abnormal and unsavoury. I spent the day at work trying desperately not to fart or poo.
So, I turned up yesterday evening and the doctor asked, “How can I help you?”
I said, “You’re going to need your gloves” and told him.
He told me to lie face up on the bed. I processed this instruction as ‘face down’ as this is what I’d expected. But after some repetition, I got what he meant, but then I confusedly wondered how he’d do this examination. Like a midwife would a pregnant woman? I really didn’t want to look him in the eye as he looked me in the arse. But there was no cause to worry. He asked me to turn on my side, pull my trousers and pants down and raise my knees to my chest. I’ve never had to trust someone so much in my whole life,
Suffice to say, it was my first haemorrhoid. Phew! I’d ruled that out due to a lack of the normal associated symptoms, so it was reassuring to know I wasn’t about to die from an arse-related condition. So, I said, “While you’re there, can you check my prostate, because I’ve not had it checked and at my age, I probably should.” He agreed, but said he needed to change his gloves, for some reason.
I’m not sure how close his elbow got to my arse-cheeks, but this was a fair bit more anally intrusive than I’ve experienced before. (Coincidentally, I’m writing this whilst the Eurovision Song Contest is on TV in my house). He described how my prostate felt. “Soft and spongey”apparently. “Is that a good thing?” I asked, slightly annoyed that he didn’t share that reassurance straight away. It is. Good outcome and well worth the anal violation.
To avoid further haemorrhoids, he asked me to describe my usual poo by showing me pictures of a range of turds. “That’s the Bristol stool chart” I said. “How do you know that?” he asked. I told him my wife used to be a nurse and I often sent birthday cards to people with that chart on them. He said I needed to drink more water and eat more “ruffage”.
He then showed me pictures online of what cream I needed to buy to put up my bum. Anusol. He asked if I wanted him to write it down. “I’m sure I can remember that name” I replied.
I drove to the chemists, waited for the queue to die down slightly, then found some Anusol on the shelf. There were 3 different types. I took all three to the counter and asked what the difference was between them. The pharmacist told me enough to decide, so I took one packet aside and said I’d take that. But she continued to describe the difference in more detail. I kept trying to tell her I’d decided, but she carried on a bit. My wife later said that I should have pretended the Anusol was for her to use on her face to avoid bags under her eyes, but I’d already bought a packet of salad from the Co-op next door as “ruffage” and put this on the pharmacist’s counter. So, they would have known I had arse problems.
I got home and messaged my two best mates, not naming names, but both have had arse problems. I told them how excluded I had felt previously, but my first haemorrhoid now made me feel more included. I felt like we were in a club. The arse problem gang. I asked if we should have a password. As kids, we were all in The Beano club and its password was “Ding Dong”. Maybe we should use that. I certainly felt like I had a clapper up my backside.
Anyway, I see the whole experience as a rite of passage. The positives are that I’m not going to die, I didn’t have to question my sexuality afterwards and I’ll probably eat more healthily and drink more water from now on. But the weirdest feeling I had as a result, was as I drove home after this anal examination, I had an overwhelming desire to wash MY hands.
