I'm a young guy of 25 -- but that's not important until later.
I like to read, particularly on the crapper, so with much glee I placed the latest tome on the porcelain throne. It's a biggie: The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Six books, all bound as one, about a thousand pages total. If you've ever read it, you know it's a good time; a bit fanciful, but a nice break from life.
Unfortunately, as I found out tonight, my breaks from life have probably been lasting a wee bit too long. You see, after sitting on the now-body temperature ring for about two chapters (maybe 30-45 minutes) this evening, I wiped, and it felt good.
Not in the way that a normal wipe feels good, either. It was thrilling. I needed more tissue. Balled it up, wiped again with more vigor, looked at the wad, and saw that it was spotless. But my pucker was now starting to itch, so again with the TP. One more look to be sure I was clean -- and I saw blood.
Not a lot, mind you, but more than there should be. (The preferred amount of blood on toilet paper, of course, is slightly less than zero.) To get an idea of how much, imagine taking a wad of TP and pressing it lightly against a nearly dry freshly painted red wall. Just a little red.
Resisting the wave of panic that besets the best of us in similar circumstances, I pondered my situation. Is it cancer? Nah, not enough blood, and it wouldn't be bright red. Good. Is it a fistula? Could be, but again, not enough. The itching came back, with more urgency. This time, however, I found it near impossible to stop wiping -- like I said, it felt great. Only the same amount of blood as before, so I guessed that was a good sign.
Still wondering if I'm about to divest myself of my entire intestinal tract through some freak virus, the REAL panic hit me: I've got hemorrhoids. Not big, bouncing, grapefruit-sized things that would prevent me from sitting up straight -- but 'roids are still 'roids, regardless of size. However, my panic wasn't about the banal medical ailment. It was about the prospects for tomorrow: I, a 25-year-old otherwise healthy male, must go to the pharmacy and buy... Preparation H.
I know what you're thinking, "Just lie. Tell the clerk it's for someone else."
What you don't know about me is that I'm a terrible liar. Even telling the truth sometimes freaks me out if it's unbelievable enough. I know, I'm a pussy. But at least I'm a good, moral pussy. Still, here I am with my itchy bum, with a readily effective treatment just around the corner, and I'm too wimpy to go and get it. I could ask my roommate to get it for me, but then I'd have to admit to him that I need it.
It's not like this is an unspeakable ailment. There are ads on TV, in magazines and on the radio for Preparation H. In fact, I seem to remember seeing several different "flavors" (if you will) of the stuff. So why then, are people (I'm conjecturing here -- at least me, but probably others) afraid to admit they've got the piles?
They're uncomfortable, they're unhealthy, and they can lead to some serious trouble. Imagine having surgery on your poop-chute... think of how vulnerable you would feel, anesthetized with your bum stuck up in the air like it's a parking spot for a bicycle wheel. What would happen if the surgeon accidentally sewed something closed that was meant to be open?
Still. This is a medical ailment little more uncommon than foot corns or cold sores... why am I so traumatized?
This brings me to the age-old phrase: damned if you do, damned if you don't. Only in this case, it's humiliation if I do, or an itchy stinging starfish if I don't. I could walk to the pharmacy, shell out the $3.99 and be healthy; or I can be a pussy and just wait for things to get worse. I think I'll just bide my time... maybe they'll just go away. But I still have a whole lot of reading to do...
-- Dave J
