However, other than Jenny McCarthy, there seem to be precious few women willing to tell you about the seedy underbelly of pregnancy and childbirth. (That is not a foreshadowy pun, leading you to believe that I am about to launch into a post about stretch marks. OH IF ONLY THIS POST WERE JUST ABOUT STRETCH MARKS.) And even then, a lot of those women are willing to talk all day about their vaginas and all the stretching and the discomfort and the sewing up and the whatnot, but they are NOT talking about their bumholes. And for that, I apologize to all of you who gave birth without the benefit of a true girlfriend who would warn you about what was about to happen to your butthole.
I will begin by saying this ... Four pregnancies have led me to this conclusion: Pregnancy, labor and delivery are the closest you can get to donating your body to science without actually being dead.
People -- men AND women -- probe your body, stick things up your body, look at and study your body, mostly in instances of partial or total undress. And sometimes you're in VERY uncomfortable positions. Sure, you're not in full rigor mortis, but I'm willing to bet they don't put cadavers in stirrups. So, let's call it even in that race between, you know, us pregnant women and the cadavers.
Long story short, I've suffered from terrible hemorrhoids with all four of my pregnancies, and they all got worse after delivery. However, with this pregnancy, I'm carrying Unnamed Baby Girl a lot lower than I carried the boys, meaning that there's a lot more pressure on my lady bits all the time. As well as my unisex bits. And that has led to significantly more painful hemorrhoids.
[Tap, tap. Is this thing still on? Anyone still there? MOVING ON.]
After trying three prescription remedies over the last couple of months, at my OB visit last Friday, he took a look because I was in such severe pain and said the equivalent of a gentlemanly, "OH SHIT." He called the nurse in, asked her to call a surgeon right away, and I was in a surgeon's office across the hospital within 20 minutes.
I was technically there for a consult, because surgeons generally don't "cut" on expectant mothers unless it's totally necessary. So I was surprised and somewhat aghast when he said, "We need to take care of this right now." And then proceeded to inject me with anesthesia EIGHT TIMES right there around my pooper.
ARE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE YET? I will say this to you, Internet: You were not the ones on the table. "Discomfort" is not a word I could use to describe this kind of painful violation. I was literally sobbing while gripping the sides of the table, white-knuckled. I was sliced and diced, then carefully put back together and stuffed with gauze.
When he was done, he asked, "What have you been taking for the pain?" And when I said, "Tylenol," he rolled his eyes and answered (IN THE VOICE OF GOD, in retrospect, and I will love him forever for this), "I'm writing you a script for Lortab. Take three a day."
I will NOT EVEN GO INTO how the surgeon's office neglected to tell me that all the lidocaine in my butt would prevent me from knowing that I had to go the bathroom, leading me to poop on myself IN MY WORK CLOTHES while I was waiting on my Lortab prescription to be filled at Walgreen's. I will refrain from regaling you with the details of THAT little adventure, yes I will.
But Internet, I share this story with you because
So you can imagine how bad it was before, since I'm feeling better after being cut open with an Exacto knife. Women, listen to your bodies. Take care of yourself. And talk to your doctor about your anus.
[SIDE NOTE TO CHINA: I have the answer to population control in your country. Accompany all ads for hemorrhoid cream with actual pictures of hemorrhoids and allude to unknowingly pooping oneself in public. PROBLEM SOLVED.]