Two for the price of one.
This is a pearoast. Normally I don't do these, but I think I fucking deserve to share my pain with as many people as possible. Yes, it's a long one, so if you have a short attention span, just skip on to the next one...

(Originally posted on "i hurt my rude bits" QOTW in July 2006)

All true BTW. (Except the bit about the £10)

Story contains bums, willies, flexible tubes and lubricant.

=========================================

It’s 1994. I’m 17.

After nature taking its course one day, I found I was in slight discomfort. Inspecting this discomfort was the obvious course of action to take. Due to the awkward positioning of this pain, obviously I had to investigate by touch only. Some people would have used a mirror, but I had no particular wish to see my own hole. When my finger touched what appeared to be an unexpected protrusion, for a split second I almost collapsed with fear. Then, I thought “ahh fuck it, it’ll go away”. It did go away after a week or two. I didn’t tell anyone.

Wind forward a few years – 1999. Again, I got lovely bits of protruding anal vein.

So that time round, being obviously more mature (ahem) I decided to pay a visit to the GP to ask him what to do, expecting to receive some medical advice and maybe some tablets or cream to make it go away.

What I should have prepared for was the examination. It’s not every day you’re in a strange room that smells funny, sort of lay on your side with your legs sort of spread apart whilst a man you don’t know that well covers an appendage with latex, lubricates it up and inserts it in your body. But that’s what happened to me. What sort of conversation is suitable for the duration of the probing? Silence? Smalltalk about trivialities in the news? Or forgetting the taboos completeley and asking “so, do you do this often?”. Me attempting to add some amusement by saying “If I pay you an extra tenner, do I get extras?” did not help however.

But piles haven’t bothered me since then. Oh no. Something MUCH worse.

One Wednesday a few years ago was an interesting day for me. Initially, it went pretty much the same as any other day; arrive at the work car park, stand in the lift and glance an awkward semi-smile at someone who i don’t really know, go into workshop, throw bag into drawer, check out the diary to see what I had planned for the day, sat down, carefully chiselled a gelatinous nugget of snot out of my nose and sat down with the usual plastic cup of freshly poured machine-cooled water. How very normal.

After an hour or so, my body informed me that I had an excess of water in my bladder, so, choosing not to ignore this warning, I sensibly walked down the corridor, commenced the usual ritual of not saying hello to anybody else stood at the urinals, then performed the act of the wee-wees. Taking a cursory glance at my liquid stream to ensure that i wasn’t pissing over the shoes of the guy stood next to me, my eyes were attracted to an unconventional sight. I appeared to be urinating Vimto. It took a few seconds for my brain to actually realise that dark red piss was not actually a sign of a healthy digestive system. This was strange. Weeing didn’t actually feel any different than usual, so why did i appear to be emptying my heart out of my genitals?

Post-pee, I relayed the story in lurid graphic detail to a couple of work colleagues, who suggested that I actually go and see someone about it. Which was probably the best idea. So off I trundled to the Occupational Health department, with my mind working overtime, creating wild ideas about the reason my body was malfuctioning in such a colourful way.

The Occupational Health department where I work is just like a Doctor’s surgery. You know, walls bedecked with numerous posters and leaflets promoting various ailments and diseases, describing symptoms so vague that it’s possible to convince yourself that you’ve had every single disease known to humankind. I’m sure that most of the diseases promoted on surgery noticeboards are completely fictitious, made up for the sole purpose of frightening people. But, jumping off that tangent, the Doc called me in, I described what had happened, though I chose to replace “Fucking hell, I’ve just been pissing blood!” with “I went to the toilet and noticed that my urine had turned red”

So, I pissed into a jar for the doc, and, although the hue was less vibrant than before, her test concluded that there was indeed blood in my urine stream. After a couple of doctors appointments, I ended up going to the hospital for a “flexible cystoscopy”. I don’t know how many of you are unfortunate to have experienced one of these, but if you haven’t, it’s not an experience that I’d undertake voluntarily.

I got into the examination room after taking off my pants and putting on this delightful hospital gown, and lay on the examination table thingy. For some reason the doctor felt he had to put his finger up my bottom as well, tunnelling deeper than on my previous arse-examination experience. But that was nothing. Fucking zero compared to the main event.

Picture a long, thin, flexible tube. Picture yourself lying there in a hospital gown watching a man advance his way to your genitals whilst two women watch. And then close your eyes for the rest of the fucking experience so you don’t have to make eye contact with the painbringer.

So anyway, he grabs hold of my cock, holds it one hand, holds tube in other. Informing me to brace myself, he then begins the oh so very unnatural experience of sliding a foreign object the wrong way up my pisspipe, scratching its way along my tubes. Then the real REAL pain came. The tube was about to go through my sphincter. The closest experience I can actually compare this feeling to, is like that of the straw puncturing the seal on a Ribena juice carton. Pressing against it and then…… ooop! It just burst through on to the inside. How very pleasurable. After much poking around, he withdrew his long shaft, and I limped out of the examination room, and straight into the toilet. The first piss was reasonably interesting. Standing there, in the usual position, my willy started what I can only describe as "sputtering". Like I was pissing air. Strange, very strange feeling. But as the first cascade of urine commenced, a delightful stinging sensation burnt it's way up my tube. I said something along the lines of "Ouch. Dear me, that was rather painful indeed, I don't wish to experience that discomfort again". Or something similar.

So anyway, the hospital analysed all the information they got, and everything was ok. Just a bladder stone or something lovely like that. Apart from it feeling like I was pissing broken glass for the next day or so after the cystoscopy, that ailment hasn’t bothered me since. So people, the moral of the story is drink lots and lots of liquid! I know I fucking do now.

I’m taking bets over which part of my body is next on the list to go wrong. Who wants to see my chart?

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Full version (yes there's more detail) on my website.
( Mike Fishcake teamfishcake.co.uk - better than your mum's face, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 11:35, 2 replies)

Of all the medical procedures
that I have encountered or may encounter in the future, that is the one that fills me full of dread. During a caesarian, my mate's wife had a catheter put in. She said it was most painful when they pulled it out.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 11:44, closed)

Owwww.
I once had the strange experience of discovering that my urine was a kind of rusty red and opaque. Mildly pretrubed, I decided that any sensible doctor would want more evidence, and tell me to drink a couple of pints of water to see if the problem recurred. So that's what I did.

Fortunately, everything seemed to be fine (and, 9 years later, I'm still alive). Reading your story, though, has given me the retrospective fear. What if I'd gone to the GP and put my self in line for that? Eeeeeep.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 12:01, closed)