My dear wonderful friend Journey Beyond Survival bestowed on me the honor that is the Oh My Blog award. There are rules and regulations and passing it on stuff that I will get to tomorrow, but for now I’ll just say that in order to accept it I must share with you this or that or the other thing, but what I chose was My Most Embarassing Moment. Natch.
Now, those of you who have been around a while might wonder what the heck else could have happened, since I’ve already told you about the shart. And the pee and the boogie. But really? I’m forever getting myself in these pain in the ass predicaments, and had to learn at an early age to laugh at myself. Or I’d miss out on all the fun, laughing with everybody else.
And, it just so happens that this embarrassing moment is timely; it all kind of happened this morning. Like, today. And I am pretty sure I only have the balls to write about it right now because of the high level of narcotics in my system. So, here goes.
I’ve been pregnant. I’ve had babies. Thus my dignity left me long long ago. There’s really no holding on to it once your body goes through those changes, once you’ve tried to have big-bellied waddling sexy time, once every hospital staff member has had their hands in your hoo-ha all in the name of “checking you” and once you had to either push, have put in or taken out a catheter, or had to prove you could poop so you and your precious cargo could go home and start your new life.
I had lots of weird pregnancy side-effects. Carpal tunnel, which I totally thought was fake until I experienced it. Sciatica, which made me hobble and occasionally fall down. Incontinence due to the position of the baby, so that every time I bent at where my waist used to be I’d pee a little in my underwear. I mean really, pregnancy is SO the opposite of glamorous.
I also . . . had to deal with this. Yeah. Me and little old men everywhere and our Tucks and our Preparation H. It was so terribly awful that I had to give that thing living in my butt a name. I call it The Roy.
Now, in all seriousness, Roys are simply just swollen veins Down There. In your bottom. They can itch or hurt or bleed, or just cause you extreme embarrassment when you have to explain to your husband why he should be the one to go to the drugstore. And also, they aren’t pretty. Maybe some of you aren’t worried about the looks of your Down There, but I generally like to present myself the best way I can. And hey, when your nickname actually contains the word ASS, well . . .
The Roy, I don’t mind telling you, is a huge pain in my ass (you had to know that was coming, didn’t you?) Most of the time his presence is pretty nonexistent, but during those times when he gets antsy and angry and wants to flex some muscle, life gets pretty unbearable. Forget actually using your butt for what your butt is for, just sitting or standing becomes a challenge. And being that my life of late has been all about MORE CARDIO on the one hand, and MORE STUDYING on the other, well, any and all rump irritations are more irritating than usual.
As it turns out, all this C25K business could be contributing to the awakening of The Roy. I mean, there are all kinds of ways to live with one, as they do like exercise and lots of fiber and plenty of water and all, but occasionally too much time on the loo (yeah, no reading in the john, guys) or working too hard to go Number Two, or some big change in physical activity (like running!) can aggravate the suckers. So, I’ve been trying to be extra kind to my behind lately.
But (and you had to know there would be a but about my butt), sometimes things get complicated. SOMEtimes all of the hot baths and TLC in the world doesn’t help and, well, things turn REALLLLY painful. Because they get a blood clot in them. And when that happens, our little Embarrassing Moment story wakes us from a sound sleep at 4 in the morning and sends us to the ER with Pain in the Ass.
Yes, I woke to excruciating pain, and we called the ER and were advised to come in. So I drove myself (I insisted that Trophy Husband stay home with The Things instead of making this a family outing) and went upto the desk to tell the tall, handsome, salt and pepper haired intake nurse that the reason I was sweating and on the verge of tears is because of a thrombosed hemorrhoid. Ahhhhh!!!
And then I had to SIT and fill out paperwork. SIT! And talk about my BUTT ISSUES! But it gets so much better . . .
I am taken back and put in a room, given a gown and a sheet, and I crawl into the bed. This particular nurse (and her southern drawl) seemed very concerned because I’d come in alone and was obviously suffering. She brought me a warm blanket and handed me the remote and prepared me for a bit of a wait because apparently THROMBOSED HEMORRHOID isn’t exactly top on the list for THE ONE DOCTOR on duty in the ER at the time. So I lay there quivering and sweating and flipping channels for a while, and finally the doc comes in. And again I have to explain my history with The Roy. And he gets the nurse and they get me into position and the lovely nurse is so kind as to actually have to sort of LIFT UP MY BUTTCHEEK to give them a better view, and then I hear them both say Ohhhh myy.
Well, he said Oh my Lord. She said Bless Your Heart. Both in southern drawls. I really and truly wanted to die. And I think that was actually the most embarrassing part. Because I like to be an example of a lot of things – quick wit, healthy choices, cute in a bikini. But the prime example of a butt problem? Umm, just shoot me now.
Anyhow, they moved fast. Didn’t give me a whole lot of extraneous information about the procedure I was about to endure other than it was necessary. And before I know it, Doctor Fixmyass is wielding this needle the size of something really frickin’ big and he proceeds to insert that needle INTO MY ANUS. I mean, the nerve! And what do I do? Besides break into a full body sweat? I yelp. YELP. And I cry. CRYYYY. Because needles in the anus hurt. They hurt the anus, and they hurt the pride.
It was awful.
So, yeah. Once it was numb I was thrilled, and have no idea what the rest of the procedure entailed though I’m pretty sure we could all figure it out. And voila, clot gone. Though for now I have pretty much traded one brand of pain for another.
The lovely nurse doped me up with Vicodin, and handed me her phone to call Trophy Husband, and I was all wobbly and dizzy and everyone kept saying “bless your heart, darlin’” like I’d just survived something truly horrible. Which I had. It was truly horrible. And now I’m stretched out on my bed snuggled up with my bottle of painkillers which are working wonders.
I ran this idea by Miz before writing it. I wondered if I had finally stumbled on the one topic that is just too personal for the fatass blog, but she encouraged me to write it because and I quote this fitness stuff isn’t all roses and lackofbuttproblems.
She’s right. I don’t know what this is going to do about my running career or my trashtalk with Jack Shit, but it has for sure slowed me down for a couple of days. And I encourage you all to eat plenty of fiber and drink lots of water. And thanks, Journey Beyond Survival, for the award and the chance to share this amazing embarrassing moment.
Okay, now you. What’s yours?