24 Jul 06
Do I have a Haemorrhoid? (Part 1)
While wiping with one-ply, I felt something that set off the voices in my mind: Oh no. What's that? It can't be. A lump? Not a lump. It's definitely a lump. Your run of having a flawless south side is over. What type of lump could it be? A haemorrhoid? A cyst? Cancer? Please not cancer. Is it really there? Touch it again. Gross. The nurse, Odd Job, is going to have fun with this. I can't report it. But you must get it seen to before it gets out of hand. True. It might get bigger if you don't have it seen. But they might want to look at it, and do things to it. Ewww. Face facts, sooner or later someone would be taking a good look down there anyway. Don't be controlled by the lump. Take control of the lump. How? Get a mirror and take a look. It might just be something you can pop.
I had to wait for the count to do an inspection as I didn't want passers-by catching me in a naked yoga position, or to receive a major disciplinary ticket for violation B10: Engaging in any sexual act, including indecent exposure and sexual advances or stalking another person.
Officer Lewalski looked through my window, and ticked my name on her clipboard. As she continued down the run, I sprang into action. Where the toilet met the wall, I placed a sock. On the sock, I slanted a mirror. Using an extension cord, I positioned my reading lamp on the floor, so it would shine upward.
I took a few deep breaths, and thought, It's now or never. Look down the run to make sure no guards are approaching. Ok, all clear. Here goes.
Topless, I lowered myself into a half-squat position above the toilet. With my ears on alert for walkie-talkies, I yanked my pants and boxers down. I was about to part my cheeks when a wasp flew into the cell. The mud dauber buzzed and swooped and had me doing the Macarena so quickly there was no time to pull up my pants. As a defensive measure I grabbed a book. The wasp zigged and I swung. The wasp zagged and I dipped and prayed that the security camera aimed a Building D wasn't filming my performance. The seconds we spent failing to resolve our differences stretched into an eternity, during which the reading lamp soothingly warmed my behind. The wasp radiated perseverance, so I dropped to the floor and pulled up my pants. It then briefly established a holding pattern in the center of the cell before flying out of the window.
It took several minutes of yogic breathing to manifest the courage to resume the inspection. Lights. Mirror. Action. I almost fainted when I saw a blue lump in a place it didn't belong.
There was no holding back the voices in my mind: Gross. What is that? It’s nothing pimple-like you can squeeze. Pop that and you’ll bleed to death. Is that what a haemorrhoid looks like? You've definitely got to go to Medical now. You'd better get rid of it before it gets bigger. But how? Will they lance it? Or freeze it? Ouch, that's got to hurt. Get it seen to before it multiplies. There could be more lurking deeper inside. And what if they can't do anything about it? No one will ever want to marry me while I've got such a grotesque thing on my behind. And I can't blame them. Would I marry someone who had such a lump? What have I done to deserve this? How do I describe it to the nurse? You’ll be the laughing stock of the Health Unit. Don't be a wuss. Man up. Fill out a Health Needs Request form.
Draft 1: When wiping my behind, I noticed a lump. Upon visual inspection, I saw a blue protrusion on the rim of my anus.
Anus sounds too obscene, I thought. I've got to mellow this out a little. Wiping is superfluous. Try again.
Draft 2: Requesting haemorrhoid cream. I have discerned a lump.
Too brief. How do you know it's a haemorrhoid? But if you sound unsure they're going to want to look, and we know what that means: out come the probing instruments. Add more detail.
Draft 3: There is a blue pea-sized lump that I suspect is a haemorrhoid. Requesting cream or whatever will make it go away.
There you go. That sounds better. Far more professional. None of that anus talk. Let's hope they don't think I'm joking, or even worse: that I'm one of those prisoners who gets jollies from coming out of his cell every once in a while to show his behind to somebody - to anybody. Surely they'll know I'd never pull a stunt like that. I'm an ex-stockbroker. I'm a professional. Everything's going to be just fine.