My Assectomy

Gather ’round, children, and I will tell you a tale. Way back in the year 2004, I thought it would be a great idea to fall off a shelf that was about fifteen feet off the ground and land directly on my ass. I immediately felt the effects of my little incident, because it seemed that I had broken every part of my ass ten times over, and thrown it in a wood-chipper for good measure. I was pretty sure most of my tail bone was located in my neck. For those of you unable to understand just what happened, here’s a quick diagram of what it felt like:

ouchie

But alas, I am what you’d call a “man” and did not think that medical attention was needed in the least. …I’m also a “man” who is deathly afraid of doctors and everything involved with doctors. Just a simple office call to see if my heart is in fact still beating would cause me to go into horrible stress fits weeks before I had to go. And that’s IF I knew I had to go. If I had to suddenly make a trip to the doctor’s office without days of panicking beforehand, I would probably just suffocate myself from trying to shove socks far enough down my throat that maybe someone would call authorities and lock me in a mental institute for the rest of my life, thus avoiding any standard, ordinary medical evaluation.

But anyway, back to my ass. It was in pain for a long time. Like serious pain. The kind of pain where it felt like someone was slamming a sledgehammer straight into whatever was left of my tail bone every time I so much as looked at a chair. And if I tried to SIT in said chair, I think my hip would audibly scream. Then *I* would scream as it felt like my hip was having a fit and shattering into a thousand tiny pieces of bone. But even with this, I felt that if I could endure the blinding pain for a few weeks, then surely my body would be able to do that whole “healing” thing on its own. I mean, after all, the cavemen didn’t have any doctors, and they were fine, right? Even if they only had a life-span of 25 years. I still bet those were 25 years of no doctors and nothing but GOOD TIMES.

Two weeks passed. Things weren’t getting much better. The only thing that had changed since then was that I could finally take a shit without shrieking for forty minutes afterward. Other than that, I still feel like someone who’d had their entire hip replaced with a Ford Escort. The breaking point came one day as I was trying to get into my car, only to slam my entire ass into the corner of the door (no, I’m not a fatty — just that clumsy), and found myself unable to move from a crouching position on my street for a good ten minutes. I finally broke down and decided that it’s just not worth it. It was time to call the doctor.

whoopsidoodles

Now, I’m not big on phones. Especially when talking to people I mostly despise. I suddenly become unable to say words properly, and somehow manage to totally rearrange my sentences. Or I will start talking about things that have no relation to what I’m trying to talk about. Simple sentences like, “Hello, how are you?” can come out as, “DON’T FEED GIZMO AFTER MIDNIGHT!” Not exactly what you’d call a smooth operator. And taking that into account, how was I ever going to convey to the doctor that my whole ass was broken, and that I need him to stare at it? There is no easy way to say it. But considering everything, I think I did pretty well:

Nurse: So, you need an appointment for a sore tail bone
Me: Yes
Nurse: What time would you like to come in on Wednesday?
Me: Not after midnight.
Nurse: We open at 8 AM.
Me: You better believe you’re keeping him in a box.
Nurse: 8 AM it is.

And with that, I was on my way to the doctor!

The doctor’s office was typical: filled with a ton of medical crap, and shiny little tools used for stabbing and prodding — the kind you’ve probably seen a hundred times before in pornos except none of the nurses here were having anal sex on the examining table. But the nurses that were there were nice enough, even without the x-rated antics we have all been conditioned to expect. One even acknowledged my bravery while standing outside the door as I took a piss in a cup. While not exactly the best place to acknowledge someone’s heroism for breaking his ass and agreeing to let a doctor look at it, I was still pretty pumped up. I expected the American flag to be draped over me as I walked out of the door, while giant words proclaimed “AMERICAN HERO” on the television monitors. But no.

After a bit, the doctor finally came in and did a lot of the basic things, like taking my blood pressure and poking me with whatever things he could find, I’m sure trying to buy time before he had to look at my ass. I would have. In fact, I would probably be the worst doctor ever when it came to such things…

Me: Hey, here’s a Bible. I want you to take it home and read it.
Patient: But I’m dying and my lungs are coming through my belly button.
Me: Here’s the King James version, too.

I’m pretty sure he took my blood pressure at least four times, poked me with every object he could find, asked me to pull my shoes off and then put them back on for no real reason that I could understand, and stared at his pen in horror for at least two minutes before doing the horrible, horrible deed. The doctor finally told me that he was going to leave the room for a moment, and then while he was gone I needed to remove my pants, and lie down on the table on my side with my ass facing the window, and to cover up with a small blanket that he would give me. Amazing how such horrible things sound so simple, and how confident I was that I could pull them off considering what I was thinking I’d have to do. I was expecting him to say “stick this camera up there while standing on your head and breakdancing to Thriller.” As it stood, I was pretty sure I could totally ace climbing onto the examining table.

I quickly decided there’s no way I’m pulling my pants off all the way, as that would just be going too far. There are certain limits that I’ll go to get better. Yes, I’ll visit a doctor so that he can examine my bare ass. And, by god, yes I’ll even control my hideous urge to launch a fart straight into his face while he’s doing it. But I will NOT take my pants off all the way. For some reason those pants felt like the last thing allowing me to retain some of my humanity. At this point, I was walking that fine line of dignity. The pants stay ON. Mostly.

I finally made my way on top of the table while dragging my pants along with me. This is one of those tables that has that little thin layer of toilet paper on it so that it makes the whole thing feel ten times more uncomfortable than it would without it, and you can sometimes still see the sweat stain from the previous patient on it even though they are supposed to place a fresh one down between appointments. Anyway, the problem was that as I was turning my ass towards the window, my pants caught hold of the paper, and ripped half the fucking shit off. As I rushed to detach it from my belt, I managed to rip more of it off from the table, finally throwing most of it in the floor, along with my belt that I think I broke in half from sheer frustration.

Finally, I managed to get the “blanket” the doctor gave me to cover myself up with. Except that it was also made of the same toilet paper shit that was on the table, which I didn’t realize until I pulled it out from underneath myself to see that I had ripped the fuck out of it, too. I still put what was left of it over me, only to have the doctor walk into a scene that must have looked as if I had just been in a battle with some vicious bloodthirsty animal.

oh no

After a few moments of him poking on my tailbone to see if he could get me to scream, he then, in true doctor fashion, tells me to point at where it hurts the most. Except this time it’s not me being five years old and pointing at my throat or at my belly and then receiving a lollipop for my hard work. No, this was my ass. And there’s just something not at all cool about pointing at your own ass, I’m sorry. Especially when neither a lollipop, or the song “Superfreak” is involved. I pointed though, while I guess he snickered and laughed at the power he held over his patients, as he could have probably told me to chew on my nipple and I would have given it my best fucking shot.

Finally, after what seemed like sixty hours, the doctor backed away and told me to put my shit back on and told me what the fuck was up. It seemed not only did I have a severely bruised tail bone, but also a nice cyst that developed from it and my wonderful decision not to get medical attention sooner. Of course the cyst would have to be cut out, but I’m not about to go any further into detail in this.

So what have we learned today? Besides not to focus an entire article on my ass? Go to the doctor. I learned that if I  had gone to see him immediately, I wouldn’t had had to endure week upon week of searing ass pain. After a relatively short amount of time experiencing humiliation, it is over, and the doctor hands you a little piece of paper which allows you to legally swallow all kinds of ultra-strong painkillers. Medicines that used to be reserved for the terminally ill, and people whose skeletons are working their way out of their bodies, and those people who are rotting from the inside out with no chance of surviving — those medicines are for all of us now. And you can trust doctors, so clearly there will be no consequences. I was given painkillers and for some reason some sleeping pills that could put me to sleep for a day if I so much as touched it to my skin and made a little wish. Oh, 2004… Back when pill-popping addictions never crossed our minds as being possible.

I assume it is still unchanged, really. And THAT is why you go to the doctor. That shit I was taking not only took the pain away, it fucking removed my hip from my body. It wasn’t so bad at all…

 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do believe I need to climb around on some tall scaffolding for a while and see what can result from it.

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