I think about poop. Poop is something I notice, measure, and am consistently in tune with. No, I don’t talk about it a lot. I mean, I don’t talk about it with just anyone. With my sisters, poop is a common conversational topic. We tell all types of stories of pooping, not pooping, embarrassing pooping—whatever has happened (or not happened) on any given day. I think this is fairly common in small circles. I can vouch for my boyfriend and his friends in a camping scenario: poop gets discussed and described, no matter who (ahem) is around.
A few weeks ago, I had a problem. I couldn’t go. A day went by, then a weekend. I chalked it up to too much food and wine, not enough water and exercise. So I started drinking two liters a day and exercising more than normal. Still nothing. I had had a few problems in the past and was told to take a daily fiber supplement. I was still taking it. I upped the dosage, nothing dangerous, still within guidelines, but more than I typically needed. Still nothing. It started freaking me out. I knew what I was consuming. I knew what I was not expelling. And, as my older sister would say “the input did not match the output.”
I also noticed a little itch, a little pain, a little blood on the TP. When enough time passed, I had a hard time keeping it in. (Well, emotionally at least.) I brought it up to my boyfriend, who I live with. He suggested I call his internist. I happened to be working from home that day, so I did. I also had been having some eye allergies. The phone call went a bit like this:
Receptionist: “Hi, so can you describe the problems you’re having?”
Me: “Well, I’m having some eye allergies and my eyes are red and irritable, and (long pause), I’m also having some digestive issues, um, constipation.”
Receptionist: “Right, well the doctor is unavailable but a nurse practitioner can see you instead.” Perfect.
I walk in to the office to find the nurse practitioner is basically someone my age; she looks like someone I might actually know or see at a party. How humiliating.
She reads my chart and then we both agree to look at my eyes first. Done. Simple. Steroid drops. Next.
Time to discuss the poop problem.
She asks a bunch of questions about my diet, exercise habits, and poop schedule. She listens and sees my furrowed brow when I deliver the news: “It’s been about five days.” I’m a bit surprised to not see any reaction to this, to not immediately get referred to a specialist, or be asked to go in to the next room for an x-ray.
Actually, according to her, my scenario is not immediately dire. She goes on to explain that some people poop every day, two days, three days—it really depends on the body.
This is not what I’m looking to hear.
But we continue. And yes, to my horror, I have to pull down my pants and have this girl who looks like she could be a friend of mine examine my butt hole. There’s nowhere to hide, and I can’t help but think; I’ve never even seen my own butt hole.
At least the exam is quick.
Then the diagnosis: I have hemorrhoids.
She tells me I have three, and if you think of a clock, I have one at three, six, and twelve.
She starts to talk to me about them as I’m blushing. She tells me they’re super common and if I were to take a walk in the Financial District at lunchtime, one in three people I passed would likely have or have had them. She tells me mine are not bad—“bad” means the size of a grape, so large that you can’t use a public bathroom because the pain is too excruciating to hide.
