Compulsively thinking...about my butt!

(The back half of the paper upon which I wrote this blog...as you can tell, I used pretty much every useable spot.)

I am the last of a dying breed. I do something which no one seems to do much of anymore: I talk.

I am good at it - the only other thing I am great at is worrying - and if I could get paid for doing it all those times I've done it, it would make Oprah, Bill Gates, and Zuckerberg look like paupers in comparison.

But back to my talking. I do it instinctively...I do it obsessively...dare I say, I do it compulsively? Well, I did and I do (and thereby fulfilling today's idiotic prompt).

Take today for instance...I'm back at the gastroenterologist for my "butt appointment". I fear the worst - I hope for the best...what I'll get only time will tell. I'm sitting here in the examination room with that embossed tissue paper wrap "garment" they give you to wear (it's a large square - one size fits all...heaven knows it goes around me twice and that means most people in Alabama won't be able to make both ends meet). Underneath it, I am naked from my shirt down.

I have another thing I do which I rank up there with a whole lot of other obsessive compulsive stuff I do...I always pull that "barrier wrap" paper down a little - the one they put over the examination table - I have no real idea why...it makes me feel safer.

You must realize that someone else's naked butt was just on that table and the only thing separating me from the previous patient's "cooties" is this paper, thinner than air mail paper if I remember correctly. In other words, very thin...if you look hard enough you can see the germs permeating it I bet...but I refuse to look. Sometimes I even fold it back over on itself - a double layer of germ protection...this I usually do at the gynecologist. Again, why? Anyone's guess.

I'm also not looking forward to having my butt examined. Not that I have issues with doctors looking "down there" - I just don't want to hear I need surgery.

I can hear him with the patient in the next room over (muffled - but it's his distinct voice - he has an accent and this is what his voice sounds when it's muffled...and it's also what it sounds like thru the exceedingly annoying tinnitus I have in my head...but it's him for sure).

Today, since I haven't told you yet -- is "hemorrhoid banding day". Friday mornings, every other week is reserved for that purpose only.

Only last Saturday nite, I had a "butt explosion". I apparently made the mistake of not eating enough dietary fiber and ended up "straining". Needless to say, that resulted in my bottom looking like any female chimpanzee in estrus you've ever had the shocking pleasure of seeing on those wildlife documentaries. Fearing "death by rectum" or some other such malady, I promptly went to the Emergency Room.

You can tell something isn't right when the ER doctor doesn't poke you. She stood behind me (well, she had to in this case) and just looked. She might have gently touched...but there was definitely no poke involved. I think she was afraid. Heaven help me, the ER doctor lady was afraid to touch my butt, I just know it. She didn't say she was - but I could tell. There are some things you don't do in life: You don't poke a glowing green meteorite from outer space with a stick...you don't go down into the basement in a horror film...and you don't touch Mariann's butt in the Emergency Room at 2:00 a.m.

It's getting quiet "next door". I think I might be next. It's 10:22. I've been here since 8:15 for my 8:30 appointment...which brings me back around to talking.

I had another captive audience in the waiting room again - and I took advantage of it again. I spoke with a lovely 72-year-old woman whose mother died in 1999 at the age of 98; her father made it all the way to 101. She didn't look a day over 59...and, altho she was here on "Butt Day Friday", she might have been here to see another doctor. I'll never know now -- as that darned nurse-type person interrupted our conversation by calling her away.

But all was okay - two unsuspecting victims walked in by the time she went totally thru the door. "Replacement talkers" as I refer to them...and they, too, were both lovely people.

And I just ran out of useable paper space...and the doctor's here.

(Seriously, I ran completely out of useable paper space just exactly when I wrote "...I just ran out of paper..." and just exactly then...the doctor came in. I couldn't have timed that any better if I wanted.)

The aftermath...and the math:

I got my third banding today...and I was pretty much right with my butt...but, I won't go into detail. He assures me, somewhat, that if I stick to his diet and eat more fruit - I can heal up...but I have to eat all those fruits. If I don't, he figured we might have to talk surgery. Ugh. No fun. No fun at all. I will try to eat those fruity things I am not partial to eating. I like vegetables much better anyway. But I do like staying out of surgery even more.

Please go over to "We Work for Cheese" for much better blog subject matter today...using today's prompt "compulsively".

In case you thought there was an excessive amount of the words "but" and "butt" - you were right - I used them 18 times in this story. Well, counting those two...I used them an even twenty. :)

 

 

 

It's a Two-fer Bonanza!

I apologize to everyone. I kinda flaked out by not posting yesterday and not posting today as of yet.

I had um...an incident regarding my butt - which probably is way too much information for most of you already.

Let's just say I had some issues I was working toward getting fixed...and one of the things which is a big no-no during the procedures I was in the midst of...is constipation...and the resulting straining.

To make a long story short, I ended up going to the Emergency Room at 2:47 in the morning - to be released at 3:45 - yes...less than one hour...from walk in to walk out, so I can't rightfully even pen an epic "Home at Last" tale filled with phlegm, blood, germs, and people picking up bits of cookie off the waiting room floor and feeding it to their kids while I cringe, further and further away from all of them...wondering whose naked butt sat on my chair (yes, pants way down past your ass is still the fashion in Montgomery, Alabama) and if they ever disinfect them. I'm going to have to chime in with a resounding "NOOOOOO!" as I bet they never even get a glance over with the rag they use from trash can to countertop and back down to the table.

I watch all those things...I obsess over those things. This is what a germaphobe does for fun: Torturing themselves by watching things which people ordinarily wouldn't give a second thought about. I, on the other hand, think "Don't tell me he's going to take that germ-soaked rag and oh my God...he did! He touched the trash can with it and then touched the desk!"

Oh, I never even touch their pens - I have my own.

Also, next time you find yourself in a hospital ER - try to find a place to put your urine sample container down on...without it touching something which would contaminate it. You have to take it apart, making sure nothing comes into contact with the inside lid - yet there are no flat surfaces anywhere within reach. It's a two person job. It's stupid. Incredibly stupid. Like, good luck not touching some other item not already contaminated with someone else's urine or feces. I usually walk in there and pretty much think "I'm semi-balancing it right here - and when I'm done I'm going to wrap it in a semi-wet towel...just...to...show them.

Is it wet from water? Wet from urine? Yeah...you messed with my Howard Hughes/Howie Mandel-like germ issue with no flat surfaces in the bathroom while I try to do a clean-catch sample for you...and this is your payback. I know it's just a wet paper towel as I used it to open the handle of the door...but you don't...so...whatever, dude...how do YOU like it? At least you have little gloves - you don't have any gloves in the bathroom for me. If you had gloves there would be ONE flat object I could put my urine sample on - but nope. Just for that maybe I touched some urine to it after all. Take that you...you designer of the strange germ-laden room of bodily fluid. You'd figure after being on duty for one full day that I wouldn't rectify the whole situation? I would...because I think that way. No one does - they don't care - it's like this all over. It's designed to piss you off. That's it. They are probably videoed and played back during the boring parts at the ER shifts.

But...back to my butt; hopefully it's okay - no one called today from the gastro doctor altho I called them twice - just to get an idea if my area has imploded, exploded, or simply unraveled...or any combination of a myriad of butt logic.

So, here I sit (in pain, mind you) typing this blog which I'm hoping will qualify as a "two-for" or "two-fer" - whichever. I did manage to put to distinct stories and prompts together (possibly not coherent as my Ambien kicked in some time ago)...anyone's guess is if I did it right.

But, for the time being I am indeed home at last...tomorrow we travel to Birmingham (quite a long drive) to my daughter's gastroenterologist for a food motility test and then to see her (with the results - I am hoping) afterwards.

Please wish her luck.

Thank you.

The prompt yesterday was "Whatever, Dude" and today's was "Home at Last".  I decided I would do one blog and work them both in; yes, I cheated.  No one said I could not cheat - at least I didn't hear.  I certainly don't remember as I take Ambien.

Also, please check out "We Work for Cheese" and their non-contest contest for the month of February. People there probably follow rules and don't go to the ER at 2:30 in the morning about their butts...or most of them...and they probably have a lot less icky things they wrote about (unlike I did). Sigh.