Being a nurse brings you so many things: joy, wonder, smiles, happiness, ummm... tears, rage, disappointment over working every EFFIN' Christmas for 25 years straight; and hemorrhoids.
For me, nursing wasn't the direct cause of said hemorrhoids. Bringing forth two nine-pound bundles of frickin' joy caused 'em. Being a nurse simply made them worse. Standing on your feet for twelve hours on end, three nights a week for 20+ years will do that to a person. And my hemorrhoids weren't those cute hemorrhoids like you hear about on the commercials. Mine were ABSOLUTELY HUGE -- as big as ping-pong balls, and damn if they weren't excruciatingly painful. And unattractive. I don't know what the hell Mr. Poonurse thought of them when he first saw them. At the time, he was too nice to say anything. That changed, eventually.
Anyway, I came to the realization that something needed to be done after working three nights straight on our busy L&D unit, with the last six hours of the last night spent scrubbed in on three C-sections in a row. When I got out of the last section, my hemorrhoids were talking absolute TRASH to me, making demands, ordering pizza, etc. I mean, they came to frickin' LIFE. I grabbed an icepack and retired to the tiny bathroom off the nurses' station, where I knelt down, dropped my pants, and put my ass in the air, with my fevered face resting on the cool porcelain tiles. I held the ice pack directly on the beastly hemmies for about forty-five minutes. Even then, the pain was unbelievable. When I at last hobbled out, I knew the time had come to DO SOMETHING.
I had a visit with my boob doctor scheduled for the next day, so I figured he could take a look at my ass at the same time. (I was courageously battling breast cancer at the time, and this surgeon had been kind enough to whack off both my boobs for me. A plastic surgeon later put some new ones in there. True story. Plus, he threw in new nipples for free after that.)
As this guy was a general surgeon, he did asses, too. So he obligingly looked at the source of my agony. "JESUS CHRIST!" he bellowed from my nether regions. "I thought you were a NURSE, for God's sake!!!" He asked me how long they had been this way ("this way" was swollen to the size of the aforementioned ping-pong balls, hard as rocks, and completely BLACK).
"Ummmm...about twenty years," I replied meekly. After a few more JESUS's thrown around, as well as comments about what a moron I was to let this go so long, where did I get my nursing education, what the HELL was I thinking, I was scheduled for the very next day. Poonurse was about to courageously battle hemorrhoids.
Cancer is less painful, let me tell you right now.
Yada yada yada... let me speed up here a bit. I had the operation under a spinal anesthetic, liberally sprinkled with IV narcotics. I slept through the whole thing, and awakened to a spanking new-and-improved anus. It didn't hurt a bit, although admittedly I couldn't feel anything from the waist down. Even when the spinal wore off, I still felt good. (Later, I found out the surgeon injected a long-acting anesthetic right into my anus that would keep it numb for about six hours).
So off I went home with a solicitous Mr. Poonurse. And the nightmare began...
I started first with a twinge of discomfort, then some pain, then some very sharp stabbing spasms, and then it was as if SOMEONE WAS SHOVING A BROOM HANDLE WRAPPED WITH RAZOR WIRE up my ass. I felt like I would pass out with pain. I reached for my trusty Percocets. (I had amassed an amazingly eclectic supply of pain pills from all the cancer surgery. I rarely took them; I kept them "just in case".)
I took two Percs and waited for the agony to subside. Mr. Poonurse clucked sympathetically over me, offering me chicken broth, which I drank and then vomited all over the couch. He said "damn it" under his breath, I know it. I decided the Percs must not have been working, as the broom handle was still working its magic in my butt, so I took some Demerol tabs. No more chicken broth for me; Mr. Poonurse went to watch some game on TV. I moaned and rolled around in agony for about the next twenty-four hours, taking HANDFULLS of pills. I neither knew nor cared what they were. I prayed I would die from the pills, if you want to know the truth.
And then the pee problems started.
One side effect of excessive narcotic use is the inability to pee. So here I was, wracked with anal agony, getting up to the bathroom to pee about every seven-and-a-half minutes only to dribble a few drops before dragging myself back to the couch and my pill haven. This went on for twenty-four full hours.
Things came to a head at 2:00 on the coldest morning I have ever seen in Raleigh. Mr. Poonurse had tired just a wee bit of my drama by this time, and screamed at me, "FOR GODS SAKE, SHUT THE F**K UP ABOUT YOUR ASS! LAY DOWN AND QUIT WHINING ABOUT HOW YOU CAN'T PEE! I HAVE TO WORK IN THE MORNING!" Immediately, I got up and stormed around getting dressed -- well, not stormed, really, but sort of slowly and excruciatingly got dressed -- and decided I would go to the ER and get catheterized.
So I emerged outside for the first time in several days, and had to scrape my car out in the bitter cold and snow and drive myself the twenty-five miles to the hospital. (All the while I was plotting ways to kill Mr. Poonurse; all involved broom handles and barbed wire. He really pissed me off. I imagined the doctors calling him from the hospital, informing him of my demise from severe urinary retention and ass pain. Then I remembered that he would probably be overjoyed to be rid of me, so I went back to just planning how to kill him.)
I got the catheter. This was a Friday, so the plan was to leave it in over the weekend and see my surgeon on Monday to remove it. The ER nurse even gave me a "leg bag," which is like a little bag you can strap on your leg and wear under your jeans. "So you can even go SHOPPING and no one will see!" she gushed cheerily. SHOPPING??? I glared at her and put her on the death list next to Mr. Poonurse and my effin' surgeon.
The weekend passed in a blur of more pills. I added alcohol for enhanced effect. It was during this time that I had the dreaded first post-surgery bowel movement. I had been taking like triple the amount of stool softeners recommended, but it was STILL like shitting shards of glass. I nearly fainted; but hey, I still had my LEG BAG, so I still could go SHOPPING!!!
Monday morning came. I sobered up and stopped taking pills long enough to drive myself to the doctor. When I blubbered all over him about how horrible it had all been, all the pain, all the pill taking, the catheter, the unbelievable shitting torture, he looked at me thoughtfully. "Why the hell didn't you just call me?" he asked. "I would have readmitted you and put you on Morphine for pain control." He shook his head in disgust.
Truthfully, in all that time, it had never ONCE crossed my mind to call and let him know what was going on. That's the nurse in me. Don't bother the doctor -- it's a phrase that's ingrained in you from Day One in nursing school.
Eventually, when I stopped kicking myself in the ass, I recovered, and have never been bothered by hemorrhoids again. Mr. Poonurse is still alive. I used up all my pills, and since I haven't been bothered by cancer again, my pill habit is over. A happy ending for my now-happy ending.
-- Poonurse