NO, I HAVE NOT BEEN PUTTING THINGS UP MY BUTT

Of the many fun effects of Crohn’s Disease, hemorrhoids are surely the most diabolically annoying.  There are other things that are more painful or more publicly humiliating, but hemorrhoids are the most sinister.

I don’t know what they are, really.  You probably don’t, either.  It’s not easy to fully comprehend maladies of the nether regions, as self-examination is impossible for all but the most devoted and curious contortionist.  Perhaps there is some sort of pose that truly enlightened yoga masters can strike to get a glimpse of their rear ends – Call of the Rising Keister or Heron-Up-the-Ass – but most of us will never be able to get a good view of that region without a complex series of mirrors.  Frankly, this is one of the parts of the body that I don’t really need to understand.  I certainly don’t intend to ask a friend for help – “Hey, could you take a good look at my butt and tell me how my hemorrhoids are doing?” seems like an inappropriate favor to ask of even the closest acquaintence.

But if you have Crohn’s, you will very likely get hemorrhoids sooner or later.  You will spend a good deal of time on the toilet.  You will have many deep thoughts.  You will get lots of reading done.  You will gain a thorough knowledge of tile grout.  You will see graffiti, lots of it, clever, obscene, profane, political, arrogant, alarming.  You will come to appreciate the nuances in toilet paper size, absorbency and texture, and will understand that two-ply is always better.  You will, then, inevitably, during all this sitting and pondering and observing, slowly develop those little balls of burning and itching known as hemorrhoids.  All of these things will, pardon the pun, come to pass. 

Because I am not the sort of person who worries too much about some minor itching or, more important, the type of person who asks a friend to examine his hemorrhoids, I did not realize the severity of the, er, situation when things got particularly troublesome one day.  It hurt, yeah, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to go to the ER to have them tell me to put some Preparation H on it.  My usual remedy for illness or injury, after the first action of simply denying the existence of a problem, is sleep, followed by Vitamin C and some sunlight.  Even if my lower leg were dangling from my kneecap like a gory pendulum, I would probably try to see of a long nap and a tall glass of OJ would cure it.  It seems to work for most things, anyway.

Not, as it turns out, infected hemorrhoids.  After two excruciating days of immense discomfort down there, during which I did my best to hover over my chair in class, desperate to not establish contact between rear and seat, and had to maintain constant vigilance so as not to constantly claw the feverish itching of said region of my body, I decided I needed to see a doctor. 

I called campus security and told them I needed a ride to the hospital. 

“What’s the problem?” the officer asked over the phone.

“My, um, rectum hurts.” 

Awkward pause.

“OK,” came the response.  “I’ll be right over.” 

I hobbled outside and waited in front of my dorm.  When the security SUV pulled up, I gingerly placed myself inside and desperately grabbed the shoulder belt, trying to hoist a bit of my weight off the seat.

Inside the ER, I filled out a long form and loitered in the waiting room, declining the nurse’s offer to “have a seat.” 

A doctor called me into the examining room and motioned for me to sit down.  Not a chance.  I stood and told her my medical history.  Crohn’s.  Intestinal inflammation.  Hemorrhoids.  And now, rectal pain.  Most likely, I emphasized, due to the Crohn’s.  And inflammation.  And hemorrhoids. 

The doctor nodded gravely, as though she didn’t quite believe what I was saying. 

“So your rectal area hurts?”

A long silence passed as she formulated her next question. She may have cleared her throat.  For the sake of drama, let's say she did.  And let’s say my face was turning red, because it was, and that I was already formulating my answer, which I was.

The answer, unspoken, was: “For fuck’s sake, NO!”

The question was: “Have you, um, inserted anything into the anus or done anything that may have caused inflammation or pain?”

No, no, no, no, no.  I understand that some people get their kicks from that sort of thing, from having things go up and in.  Personally, I have more than enough problems getting things down and out of that opening, and enough pain and misery in that general vicinity, that, well, you’ll just have to trust me that I really, really have no interest in adding to the already-full events calendar down there.  I have, at various times, had to give myself enemas and suppositories, and they are somewhat less than the highlight of my day. 

So, no, I had not shoved anything up my ass.  As I may have mentioned, I have hemorrhoids. 

The doctor was unconvinced by my assurances and my repeated claims that I have hemorrhoids.

“Well, I’m sorry,” she said, “But you’re going to have to pull down your pants so I can take a look.”

I couldn’t take them off fast enough.  Yes, please do look at the place that hurts!  Golly, that makes a lot of sense. 

I lay on the table.  I mooned her.  She audibly winced.

“Oooh.  You have pretty severely infected hemorrhoids.”

That’s what I was sayin’, lady.