How it all began
On Monday, 2 July, I woke up with a lump in my nether regions. It wasn't the kind of lump a lot of five-year-olds wake up with. This badboy was under my skin. Of course, I didn't become aware of it immediately. They start small.
During the course of the day I wasn't really aware of the thing. Although, thinking about it now, my ass was sending postcards to my brain. It's just that this is the kind of message a person's brain tries to ignore. It's called denial.
A BIG MISTAKE.
The next day the lump's existence floated into my conscious mind. Anus was now firing emails fast and furiously at Brain. Anus is a shy feller and bar a few trusted friends, he likes to think of the area in my boxers as `his hood'. Plus, the thing on the perimeter of my exhaust pipe was starting to hurt.
I was obviously going to have to deal with it.
Now how do you deal with a lump in your ass? Well, thanks to the might of the drug industry there is a variety of anaestethic ointments available that will wage their dirty war on the little critter.
Problem is, in my case, I left it too long.
The thing started to expand even further making life very uncomfortable for me. You may wonder what this discomfort entails. Well, for a start you have to sit at an angle. And bowel movements do not provide their normal symphonic release you may (or may not) normally experience. (On a side note: I like to think of my movements as a spiritual experience.) In fact, you dread them. Which is not a normal relationship to have with your anus.
I used the ointments. Lots of it. But nothing. Growth was now what can only be termed as exponential. I needed help.
A third party enters
On Thursday I realised that I needed the opinion of a medical doctor. Now, I don't generally believe in going to a practitioner. Their ways and means are sometimes far too commercial for my liking. But what was a boy to do? Anyway, I went to the nearest medical centre. The receptionist asked me if I had any preferences. I told her that I didn't have any particular feelings on the matter. I just want to get this overwith so that I can get to work.
So I went in to see the doctor. It went like this:
Me: Hi, I'm Leon (blushing, she's kinda cute)
Doc: And I'm Virginia, pleased to meet you. What can we do for you today?
Me: Er ... please have a look at my a-hole.
Well, I suppose dogs sniff each other's butts instead of shaking hands. But still. Anyway, after I unhooked my corduroy's she confirmed my fears:
I needed surgery.
She referred me to a specialist surgeon and so it came to pass that on Friday afternoon I was looking down the Xenon lamp of an operating theatre through my wrong side whilst a handful of pretty theatre nurses were helping the anaesthetist put me to sleep.
I can't tell you much about the surgery. What I know about it is hearsay. What felt like seconds to me was in fact one and a half hours. The specialist reassured me: "Sorry, Son, but we had to cut more veins out of you're a-hole than we initially anticipated."
Me: (Thinking) But I feel fine. Why are you saying sorry.
Doc: The anaesthetics will wear down in about thirty minutes. We'll organise you some morphine then.
Fear set in. The shit was about to hit the fan, I realised.
Post pile removal surgery is not at all like a walk in the park. It's more than a bummer. You bleed all over the show, your anus is now directly shouting in your brain's ear and you can't imagine what your first bowel movement is going to be like.
Some other reasons why anus surgery sucks
At this point is should be fairly obvious to you that there are many better ways to spend a week than to go through what has been my plight. I can think of million things right now: wash five million cars, reinstall Windows, and watch The Waltons - to name but a few.
You get the picture.
But let me point out some other less obvious reasons why anus surgery sucks:
- Sitting in traffic.
- Eating (because of what happens later)
- Being the butt of all the jokes at your place of employment, enduring many wondrous puns like "Glad you didn't meet your end, Leon" followed by uncontrollable sniggers.
- Bathing in chemicals, rather than being able to clean yourself with loo paper.
- And, enriching the sons of Satan over at the hygienic pad factory because I'm now going through more pads in one week than any well functioning woman does in a year.
So now for the question on all of your minds:
How can I avoid this from happening to me?
If you don't want a scalpel to go where the sun don't shine, you have to be aware of where these little buggers come from. This will set you on a path of prevention which is always better than the cure as described above.
Piles or haemorrhoids are a product of a Western way of life.
They are really blocked veins in (yes, in) and around your exhaust pipe. They block because of pressure from above. The pressure can either be the cause of pregnancy (common in women) or constipation
(common in men).
For the prevention of pregnancy I'm sure you only need one word of advice. Contraception. For the prevention of constipation another: Roughage.
Put plenty of grains and fibre in your diet and your bowels will move like a platoon.
Also, listen to your body. If your bowels send an email with the following words in the subject line: "Gotta poo, Daddy" then don't reply: "Wait, I've just got to finish this last few lines of copy" or whatever else that's preventing you from going when your body tells you to.
Don't strain on the loo "to get the last bit out." Rather save it for a rainy day if push comes to shove.
Also, remember the golden rule of pile combat: libraries are for reading and crappers are for yes, crapping.
Which is what I wish I could do normally now. But alas, that pleasure will only be mine in a few weeks when my butt has healed from the trauma of staring a masked madman wielding a scalpel in the eye.