This one is embarrassing.It's the only thing I've ever done like this. If it bothers you,
I'm sorry. Please go on to the next one where it's a little more socially acceptable.

Don't read this before, or after, eating. It's a good day to fast.

Tuesday, as I was laboring in my cubicle I couldn't help noticing that something wasn't right. My butt hurt. It was impossible not to notice. Because pain is always hard not to notice, but when you're sitting on it, even more so.

Of course my first thought was 'Uncle Al died of intestinal problems. We all die of cancer in our family. Here it goes." An outgrowth of my naturally cheerful, optimistic disposition.

Then it occurred to me that Friday we ordered pizza. When we visited the Genius's Saturday, he ordered pizza. Sunday afternoon I had leftover, you got it, pizza. So maybe it was just a serious bowel movement pending. I adjourned to the bathroom to test the more optimistic theory, and it certainly was a manly BM. One any man would have been proud of. A BM for the ages. It was glorious. And it hurt like a sunnuvabitch.

Back again to cancer thoughts. Because I'm only 46, I can't have hemorrhoids yet, can I? Better to have cancer, people don't laugh at cancer. But hemorrhoids, God, it's like you'd be on the end of every Preparation H joke ever done. Every Preparation H commercial would be like, "Hey you, yeah you, listen up. We know who you are. And you need this." Can you imagine a life where those commercials would actually become interesting? Relieves swelling AND itching? WOW! Did I get that on tape? Leave me out of it.

I tried to resume work. The BM apparently relieved pressure on the area so I thought I was doing pretty good. Didn't take long though and the pain was back. Damn. Eventually I told my boss I wouldn't be in the next day because I had to see a doctor. He said ok. He asked if everything was ok. This was the opportunity to tell him what was going on. Right. I just said I was feeling miserable, and was ineffective at my desk. Ineffective? He probably thought it was mental. Better that than Preparation H jokes though.

When I tried to go to bed that night I could only lay down for an hour. Then I thought, I'm on the web, I've got resources. So I logged on and Googled "hemorrhoids." Do that yourself and you'll be amazed at the number of sites related to that. Truly, truly I say to you, we live in an amazing age. Knowledge has greatly increased.

I expected something like, "Wear a mask over your face and yell "Unclean" to anyone near." But, unlike me, they had no shame. They were informational.

The first site I saw said a hot bath could provide relief. There ya go, ooh baby. When I had my brain tumor problems I slept many a night in a tub of hot water. Loved it. Come to Papa!

When I moved the shower curtains out of the way the metal soap dish clanged on the tub. Crap. Sure enough. In no time at all my wife the super nurse was in there asking what was going on. I told her. She said, "Let me find a flashlight and take a look." The only flashlight we could find was a big Mag-Lite. The one that uses six D-cells. Focus the beam and you could probably remove the offending tissue with a little home laser surgery.

I laid on my side. She illuminated. And declared, "Wow, these are so big I don't need a flashlight to see 'em. You've got the biggest hemorrhoids I've ever seen!" Shame to pride just that fast. But as Dad always said, "Anything worth doing is worth doing right." Dad would have been proud too. I just know.

Being the good nurse that she is she found a suitable ointment to apply and applied it. If there's a greater act of love than this I don't know what it is. And she brought me some aspirin to relieve the pain and any possible bloot clots. Then I got in the tub.

This (Wednesday) morning, Trainboy woke me up and told be to get out of the bathtub. My sleeping in the bathtub seemed to annoy him. Like he knew there are things you do, and don't do. And sleeping in a bathtub is just against the natural order of things. I got out. Though not happily. Because it had provided relief, and I do like sleeping in the bathtub.

After getting Ms. Pikachu off to school the wife asked me if I wanted to see the doctor, or if she should just call the doctor's office and ask for prescription strength Anusol. I don't know, this is a manly size problem, does it come in a manly size? Oh call the doctor. So she did, and she got me in. Wish I would have heard the phone call, or maybe not.
"My husband's got hemorrhoids and he needs relief stat!"
"Need an ambulance?"
"Only if he can lay on his stomach."

So I went to the doctor's office this morning. The wife wanted to come along, but could not. Trainboy leaves on the afternoon bus, and she didn't want to subject him to the exam. Which is not to say I wanted to be subjected to it either. But sometimes the manly thing to do is just gird your loins and bend over. Or whatever.

The nurse that ushered me back to the room was professional of course. She tried to keep it professional, but I could tell it was hard for her. Behind that poker face was an Ed McMahon wanting to laugh at everything I said. She told me to remove the clothing from the lower half of my body and handed me a drape. What, no grass skirt?

The doctor came in. She sat down with an ease that told me she did not suffer from hemorrhoids. No matter how sympathetic, she could not feel my pain, not that that was important. It's not like we'd be sharing war stories anyway, she has other things to do.

She asked me to tell her my tale. I laughed, tale, tail. Then she realized why I was laughing and she laughed also. Then I told her my tale and she laughed some more. It's not quite so humiliating if you get to make a joke of it.

I then laid on my side as instructed. And she really did feel my pain. Ouch, and that hurts. She declared, "You really do have some prize winners there." It was nice she could inject a little levity with her finger.

She inquired about what, if any, self-treatment I'd had. And what I'd received from the wife. She said it was all perfect. She gave me a slip to give to the boss so I wouldn't be sitting on them all day. Cuz no way am I sitting on one of those dougnuts all day. No way. It would be a perfect ring-target for jokes, and my butt would be the bull's eye. Hmm, bulls are manly. But I still ain't gonna do it.

And she handed me a prescription for industrial strength Anusol, just like the wife said. She's really good.

I gave the medical leave slip to my boss. The doc just wrote, "Under medical care 4/23-25." He was concerned and asked if I was ok. It was another chance to explain what the problem was, but no way was I going to talk about it. He couldn't tell what the problem was. I wasn't walking bow-legged. I wasn't bent over. And I wasn't telling.

So did I learn anything from all this? Like I needed to. Well, I'll never eat pizza three days in a row without eating a lot of fiber too. If I can't get any fiber, I'll have another piece. Because I don't just want a prize, I want the gold. USA, USA, USA!

Your Publicserf

Here's some of a reply from Ron at RonsLog, http://www.rbgilbert.com/log/ronslog.html There are years of experience displayed, much wisdom offered. Listen and learn. Truly he is a WebGod.

It's the vague glance at your body that is essential. Consciously or
not, your boss will read your body language and think you are
referring to that part of your body. You could massage the left
side of your chest with your right hand while saying "I'll be
under doctor's care," and he'll visualize a great big arterial
blockage right at your heart.

Take a deep breath, sigh, and glance downward and they'll "know"
it's lung cancer. Do not turn your head mysteriously to the
side...he'll think it's mental disease. Can you generate teary
red eyes on demand? Always effective.

Or a falsely upbeat approach could be effective. Say brightly,
"I'm sure I'll be back in on Wednesday! My whole congregation is
praying with me!" Soon your co-workers will be praying for your
vague disease.

If none of these things work, then they just don't care about you
and you ought to be counting the days until early retirement
comes to you.