Content warning: Gross stuff ahead.
I’ve been tossing up whether to post this one. It’s possibly too much, even for me. But I’ve consulted some trusted advisors and they agree that if I’m going to tell my story, I should probably try and keep it as real as possible. And this is as real as it gets.
My arsehole.
My arsehole has had a visitor over the last one and a half weeks. Hector the Haemorrhoid. I didn’t even need to spell check that. I’ve googled that word at least forty times over the last seven days and the only thing that comes close in spelling is ‘haemorrhage’.
As an explanation for new readers, there are already a couple of characters in my story. In brief, Alan, the bowel tumour who set up an annexe in my liver, and Karen, the sneaky breast tumour who seems to be keeping a low enough profile for now.
Hector arrived post chemo and, to be fair, I wasn’t that surprised by his unwelcome entrance into the narrative. Chemotherapy treatment for colorectal cancer involves unavoidably riding a predictably uncertain wave of constipation and diarrhoea (yep, I can spell that one too). No amount of fibre is going to combat the concrete binding effects of anti-nausea and steroidal medication taken on the day of infusion. And no amount of gastro-stop is going to avoid the ring-stinging insistent hourly purging of one’s digestive tract. I’m sure I almost lost an internal organ down the bowl one day.
If one was to write the perfect recipe for conjuring a haemorrhoid it would involve either weighing down the internal organs with a three and a half kilo foetus or completely stripping the digestive tract of its ability to function by applying cell killing chemicals directly into the bloodstream. Insert the need to strain somewhat to shift said concrete in the bowel, and finally, add a dash of acidic diarrhoea to inflame the membranes. As a consequence, one must tread the potentially catastrophic pathway between laxative and loperamide in an attempt to manage all of the above.
Needless to say, I have failed. My bowels have failed. My patience has failed. And for the past 8 days I have had a large, seedless red grape, clinging and screaming loudly, on my arsehole. The pain is at once immediate, intensely unbearable, and for obvious reasons, unspeakable. Has the shame of its appearance stopped me from telling everyone about it? Clearly not.
“Hi Dad. How was your trip?…Yeah, I’m ok…yeah…I have a haemorrhoid…yeah, yeah, it hurts a lot…”
The worst decision I made was to attend yoga. Apparently, coming up to stand from a seated prayer position is equivalent to taking one’s newly acquired anal passenger and strangling it into a firm, aggressive headlock. I may as well have ridden a fucking horse.
So how is Hector travelling now? Well you’ll be pleased to learn that treatment for haemorrhoids hasn’t really changed in fifty fucking years and there’s no convincing a GP to stun-gun the thing into submission. Ointment. Fibre (fuck off with this please, on behalf of all the cancer folk, your fibre shit is useless in our world). Ice. Side-lying. Painkillers. The end. I am finally seeing some progress. I seem to have begun to whip Hector into submission.
And I have to go to chemo tomorrow. To start it all again. So I’ve decided I’m going to ask to forego the anti-nausea super tablet this time. I’d actually rather vomit for two days than go through the past week again. (Prediction: I will take this back after two hours of vomiting. I am a terrible spewer. Overly loud. Complainy.)
I’m sorry for those of you I have disgusted with this post. For those of you who have been through this, I see you and your haemorrhoids and I feel nothing but admiration at your ability to not publicly complain about this most humiliating of afflictions.
So this post is just more support for the “Cancer sucks” stance. Luckily, on the upside, it’s super glamorous and sexy.
PS. Hi Magro. I love you and your perfectly functioning arsehole. And I know you love me despite my haemorrhoids. Let’s get married in two weeks while this is still a thing.
PPS. At one stage I wrapped a Calippo ice-block in a paper towel and shoved it between my butt cheeks. The foil lid exploded on my numb ass and I sat oblivious in melting raspberry ice-block for twenty minutes before realising.
PPS. Ok, look. Fibre is important. Even if, and possibly especially if, you have cancer. It just sometimes isn’t enough.