Three nights ago, I awakened at 3:38 a.m., feeling like something untoward had happened to my lower orifice while I slumbered; possibly a gang rape. Finger-like waves of nausea and sharp pains filtered from my poopie hatch, up through my innards.
Instantly, I knew what I was dealing with. I also knew I was screwed, because I did not have the one and only item that would take care of the situation.
I knew Mom would have some, but the idea of crawling the few hundred yards from my house, up the hill, past the barn, to her back porch, where surely I could scream loud enough to alert someone--let’s just say I knew I’d die of agony first.
I could barely breathe, never mind move.
During the delivery of my firstborn son, I’d acquired a souvenir that would hang about long after Jake was weaned from the bottle. In fact, my little friends--and notice that word is plural--continue to accompany me on my travels and travails in life; a tiny bunch of deflated mini-grapes just inside my anus, like a dormant volcano. Most of the time they rested, and I didn’t even know they were there.
Until they became angry.
I don’t think the human body is meant to withstand a three hour pushing session. I’m not talking about three hours of labor. I’m talking about the part of labor where your knees are up by your ears, and you’ve got a mother and a mother-in-law, each holding back a leg, screaming, “Push! Push! You’re almost there!”
Think of it as taking a three hour shit. You’re bound to come away from the bowl a bit drained, and your lower crevice won’t be feeling, generally speaking, all that delighted to be there.
As I laid on my bed in the wee hours, I wondered if there was anything I could do to take the pain away, because in two hours, I’d have to get up, get two children dressed, and drive twenty minutes to school. That, I thought, might be a tad difficult if I was just having trouble breathing.
I rolled out of the bed and walked, hunched over, to the bathroom, and immediately knew I was going to faint.
I’m a fainter. I guess it’s the body’s way of shutting off when something assaultive happens, but since I was a kid, I’ve been a fainter, so I’m quite familiar with the warning signs. Instant nausea, impaired vision and the feeling of impending death, all prior to lights out. I’ve woken up on the floor of the bathroom twice, one of those times managing to break my glasses in half.
What I did not want to do was faint, hit my head on something, and become unconscious while the rest of the members of my household gently slumbered.
I fell back on the bed, stretched my neck toward the fan, broke out in a flop sweat and thought I might vomit. Thinking positioning might help, I writhed around quietly, trying not to wake anyone, ending up in a position similar to the downward dog yoga position.
By the time the clock showed ten minutes had passed--though it felt like six weeks--the pain abated slightly and my mind cleared enough to embark on a plan of action.
Hemorrhoid cream supposedly shrinks painful swelling, so what did I have at my disposal that might produce a similar effect?
Ice, I thought. Ice, might help with swelling, and didn’t ice also numb things?
I briefly thought of shuffling out to the yard, where a snow storm was in full swing, and dropping my Tweety-Bird flannel pajama pants, spreading my butt cheeks and falling ass-first onto a pile of snow. It sounded like bliss, but I was certain I wouldn’t make it that far.
Getting to the refrigerator seemed like trekking through the Outback, and when I opened the freezer, I realized I had no ice. What I did have, were the freezer blocks, shaped like a soccer ball and a football, that I used for my children’s lunchboxes. For a brief moment, the idea of shoving a frozen soccer ball up my butt, then rinsing it and putting it in Jake’s lunchbox seemed slightly appealing in an ironically, sadistic way. And, believe you me, if it had been my only option, Jake would unknowingly be taking a frozen soccer ball formerly shoved into my ass to lunch that day.
After I’d washed it, of course. What he didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt him.
My eyes passed over the vegetables, and I knew my next choice was a bag of frozen peas--but, what would I cook for dinner with the ham and potatoes? I didn’t think I could straddle my dinner, then rinse and eat it, as if nothing untoward had happened in the process.
Then I saw it. The long object seemed just right for the job--a lime green lid to a sports cup attached to a protruding six inch dowel-like rod extending from the screw-on lid, meant to keep the drink cup cool for hours.
It looked like a frozen phallus attached to a convenient handle.
Bingo! We have a winner!
As I shuffled back to the safety of my dark bedroom, I noticed it said Cool-Aids on the side.
So, picture this. I’ve got one knee against my bed for support--oh yeah, my pants are down around my ankles--and the other knee bent and hiked up sideways. Kind of like a dog peeing on a fire hydrant. I’m sort of leaning the frozen object into my rectum, but only slightly. There was no insertion.
I want that on record.
Then I pull my undies back up, to keep the frosty item in place, or at least as close to the target area as possible. Actually, I just ended up riding it like a horse, and my entire va-jay-jay and pucker took only a few seconds to become non-existent.
I lowered my body to the bed and rolled on my side, the frozen thing jutting out behind me, straining my p.j. bottoms. I imagined I looked like someone with an erection protruding from their derrière.
The ice worked, and I feel asleep, waking only when the alarm rang. For a minute, I thought it had all been a bad dream, until I stood and the now lukewarm, formerly frozen lid-slash-frozen-phallus fell down my pant leg and ended up on the floor next to the bed.
I got through my morning ritual in only minimal pain, making it to the store after dropping the kids off, and purchased an armload of items that would take care of the situation. All generic, by the way. I don’t buy brand names if there are generics available.
That’s a fool’s game.
E-MAIL THE AUTHOR YOUR REMEDIES
Since writing this, I’ve received quite a few suggestions with regard to hemorrhoids. I’m happy to entertain any and all ideas, including homeopathic, drug-related, Grannie’s cure-all’s, and folk remedies.
You can also post a comment here on the blog.
*Recently, I was told a clove of garlic works; just insert it up the chute. Supposedly, it will keep the dog’s nose out of my backside, as well.
Good to know.