» Ouch!

Weatherspoons gore
As fellow-sufferers will know, problems of the internal-plumbing-and-back-passage variety have a way of reducing inhibitions in every way imaginable, save erotically (where the area loses all possible appeal). Beyond the inappropriate restaurant conversations and revolting hypochondriac fact-swapping, you have achieved a point of acceptance where dropping your trousers, and proffering your rear to medical staff becomes as routine as a repeat prescription. 3 years on and multiple invasive procedures later, I suspect the NHS of playing some kind of cruel joke - I have had bits cut out, Botox injected (beautiful), rods rammed in, cameras filming, flashlights beamed, and, memorably, a water balloon inflated, all in the comfort of my rectum and lower intestine. And still no diagnosis.
After my first surgery, and being inexperienced, I was feeling so high on the drugs I went ahead to a previously booked weekend away with my other half to a seaside cottage. All was going well, I'd just eaten my first real meal in the local Weatherspoons and excused myself to go to the loo. No sooner had I started my meaningful business that I felt like I was having a chainsaw jammed up my backside and left there. The result, a horrifying splattering of fecal afterbirth in a pile of congealed blood and guts isn't what you go to your local Weatherspoon's for, to say the least. A&E and ye olde local NHS hospital curtly informed my weeping, bleeding, contorted and prostrate self that this is normal for this type of operation, and sent me home with a paracetamol. I spent the next week crying myself into a frenzy of pain and self-medicating over the counter.
(Fri 30th Jul 2010, 10:02, More)