This is going to sound weird but (to borrow an intro I hear a lot in the hospital) the first symptom I had was a faint vibration between my legs.

Initially I thought it was just my pant folds shifting or my imagination.  As it kept recurring, I entertained stranger ideas like maybe I was developing some strange groin neuropathy or there was a particular radio frequency that was attuned to my taint.

A few weeks later, my butt started hurting,  just left of the bullseye (proctologically speaking).  I figured it was because of some particularly long  gaming sessions, and before that, particularly long study sessions.  It burned with walking and sitting and after going to the bathroom.  After a couple days of cartoon stars flashing out of my ass, I became pretty concerned.  I hesitantly told Amy.

“Do you want me to take a look?” she asked.

“NO!  No way.  No.  I don’t even want to look,” I said, “If it’s not better in two days, I’ll get checked out.  I just need one of 5un 5u’s pillows to sit on.”

My list of likely diagnoses was relatively short: hemorrhoids, or rectal abscess/infection.  Less likely would be things like inflammatory bowel disease, diverticulosis, colon or prostate cancer.

Hemorrhoids aren’t really hospitalist jurisdiction (they’re not even covered on general medicine board exams – too mundane), so I looked up more information and found the usual stuff:

1)  Don’t strain – More fiber.  More water.  Less caffeine.  Less grunting.

2)  Frequent sitz baths – I always assumed these were some odd witch’s mixture of toad tails and crow eyes.  Turns out, it’s just a bath.  Some sources recommended epsom salt, some don’t.  Just a bath.

3) “Old people stuff” -  Preparation H.  Ointments.  Witch hazel pads.

During my next shower, I gingerly felt myself back there.  Yep, something was swollen.

I was afraid to look, fearful of what unspeakable horror lurked where no sun shined, but I had to see what was going on back there.  I propped up my phone (in a jar of coins), hit the timer delay, bent over and spread ‘em.  Click.  Not as horrible as I imagined (or have seen), but not a runner-up in the Miss Anus Pageant either.  It looked like an external hemorrhoid, a knot that wasn’t supposed to be there.  I felt disappointed in myself, having irrevocably failed in taking care of my one and only body.  At that moment, my phone with that picture on it became the most guarded possession I own.

It depressed me that such a small, almost comical, thing could be so debilitating.  I walked around like a slow old man because it hurt.  I didn’t like sitting down because it hurt.  I didn’t want to eat because the end result would hurt.  I didn’t want to play with the kids or exercise or sit at my computer or play games.  And sex or masturbation?  Forget it.  Just like that, I became old.  From what I read, it said hemorrhoids never go away.  The recommended treatments didn’t seem to be helping.  Welcome to the new you, which is you, except an old you.  I see it all the time in the hospital, “Grandpa was dancing at a wedding just last year before all this.”  Then it goes downhill from there.  It’s got to happen some day, you’re young, young, young, then you’re old.  Just like life – you’re alive, alive, alive, then you’re dead.

Big baby.  What am I complaining about?  It’s not like it’s cancer.

I tried an epsom salt bath, once.  It burned, but plain old warm baths felt surprisingly good – everywhere.  I need to relax like this more often, I thought.  The witch hazel wipe felt like acid.  Preparation H helped a bit but there was the occasional squishiness between the butt cheeks at times.

The next day, I was sitting on the toilet.  Careful not to bring a book or my PSP and sit too long this time when I heard dripping.  I looked down and saw the thing that no man is ever used to seeing in the toilet – blood.  Especially his own.

Was it time to see a doctor?  Well of course not.  Doctors are too busy doctoring to get doctored by another doctor.  The doc would just tell me to do the same things I read about and if that failed, go see a surgeon.  I just paid myself a thirty dollar copay instead.  This is one reason why doctors make the worst patients.

Wince.  Wipe.  Shower.  Bathe.  Eat little.  Drink more.

Hunger.  Fatigue.  Pain.  Depression.

On the plus side, since I wasn’t really eating much, I was losing weight – without exercising – best exercise program ever.  Wait, that’s not always a good thing.

While mom was visiting, she noticed dried blood on the back of my pajamas one morning (how her bad eyes spotted it amidst the plaid is a testament to the superpower known as mommy-sense).  At the end of my rope, I told her that I think I have hemorrhoids.  I hate to admit it, but even as a nearly 40-year old man, I needed the comfort of just confiding in my mom at that point.  Besides, I figured, she’s old, maybe she has some advice.

Sitting on the toilet became a religious event of silent pra — wishing and zen-like relaxation (i.e., no straining).  Please please please do not bleed.  I wished it went back to just hurting.  I thought about people with inflammatory bowel disease and their pains and frequent bloody bowel movements.  This has to be nothing compared to that.  Unless, a tiny light in my brain said, this is that.

Just a little blood that time.

And that was the last time.  It got slowly better after that.  Luckily I was off for a few days during the worst of all of this, but the first two days back to work did set off star-spangled ouchies that made me sweat, slow down, and wince in the hallways.

A few days later, I was demonstrating the leaping samurai slash for my kids.  Things quietly returned back to normal with only the slightest reminders to drink more water, eat more fiber, relax and enjoy the simpler things more (which just lasted about a week of course).

Also, take more baths.

I probably put most of that weight back on too.

From my ass to your ears, let this be the last time I write of my hemorrhoids.

The … end, almost.

During and after this whole episode, one thing that bothered me a little was that my own wife didn’t seem all that concerned.  In her defense, she’s a nurse, and like doctors, we gave at the office and don’t like bringing our work home.  She was also having a very stressful week at work.  I played it like it was all under control and maybe she was doing the same.  Or maybe the alternative diagnosis, the possibility that this was more than one long butt joke, was too much to face.  I also kept to myself more than usual too.

Later, Amy told me that for three days in a row, she was having weird dreams, like this one:

“I was being chased in this building at night by these bad people.  I hid and snuck away until I finally found my car.  I was about to run toward it and drive home when I saw their shadows around it.  I just turned and ran in the other direction.”

Usually she asks me what do I think it means.  This time she didn’t have to.

“All fixed.”