Context: My self-diagnosis, confirmed by all close friends, is hemorrhoids. Little scratchy bleeding sons of bitches that make it feel like I am passing a medieval combat flail, and it has only become worse over the past few weeks.
My report: For the past couple days, I had been dreading an impending bowel movement. As more time passed without poop, I became both thankful that I wasn't pooping and apprehensive that the final poop, when it came, would land me in the hospital with a morphine drip.
This is not the normal way I relate to my poop. Pooping is usually a special time during which I can count my colon as an ally, even if I can rely on nothing else in the world -- any time, anywhere. My newfound dread of pooping made me feel betrayed by my once-friendly rectum, as if I had taken it for granted and was now being punished for my impudence.
I began to consider the idea of simply never pooping again -- an idea just too painful to face. When logic stepped up to reassure me that I would, indeed, have to poop sooner or later, I was filled with an icy sense of foreboding that the poo that would finally emerge might ruin me.
But today, I took a major step toward personal reconciliation with the act of defecation.
Last week, a good friend of mine (who had recently undergone colonic hydrotherapy) left a Ziploc baggie full of glycerin suppositories on my bed. It was accompanied by a note explaining how the magic would happen. It seemed like I would have to set aside some time to use them, since she wrote that a bowel movement would occur in fifteen-to-sixty minutes. So I naturally put off my own happiness, since I felt busy, and tried (unsuccessfully) to put the floating specter of the prickly poop out of my mind.
But since the class I was supposed to teach today was canceled, I figured I would go ahead and take a stab at it. I inserted a suppository, observing that my anus was more supple than I had remembered, and kept my cheeks clenched and my legs crossed until I felt like the suppository had been sucked up into the rectal cavity and had some time to melt -- in other words, about twenty minutes.
I lit a candle and a small stick of incense, and then sat down on the toilet and... just relaxed. The end result was a relative bliss. Sure, it smarted a little; but all in all, it was a smooth ride out. I was able to focus on my daily crossword puzzle without perching like a bird in a squat and curling my toes up on the seat, or else setting down the newspaper and leaning until my head either rested down on my ankles or up on the top of the tank. Nope, I just pooped. I pooped! Hallelujah. And it was okay.
As I reflected, I realized that this experience had broader implications for my life as a whole. With the help of a friend, I had transformed the dread of procrastination into pro-active planning and implementation! Let this be a lesson for life. Whatever you need to do, whatever you dread, it all will happen in good time, and there's no use in avoiding it. But if you want it to go smoothly, you'd be best off to take a deep breath, get some help -- you know, talk about your problems -- and shove some glycerin up your ass before things get out of hand.