Potty Humor

Guest posting is my favorite and handsome husband. If you survived my post, and don't mind John's hilarious inability to take anything seriously (at least in the blog world), read on:

Laura asked me to write this post for her. She asked me to do this even though I’m completely irreverent and silly. Though maybe that’s why she asked me to write this post for her. You see, a while ago, Laura stopped pooping.

Seriously, she hasn’t pooped in 16 months – more or less. Talk about your crappy (har!) situation!

The story goes back much further than 16 months. But I’m not here to talk about how she went from painful child birth, to eating 14,593 lbs of fiber and drinking 1,342 gals of water everyday, to needing a pooping coach. I’m just here to talk about the colo-rectal specialist – the butt doctor.

The idea of someone becoming a butt doctor is fascinating in its own right. I mean, how does one decide that nothing sounds better than dealing with poop and anuses all day? Laura’s butt doctor says it was helping people with “these type” of problems and seeing how grateful they were. And while I am very grateful – though not as grateful as Laura – that he made that choice, it’s still hard for me to comprehend. I mean, I get warm fuzzies helping someone in a crappy (har!) situation too, but it doesn’t mean I like it. For example, one time I was changing a dear, sweet old man (don’t ask. Laura is still paying for that one) when he accidentally pooped in my hand – I wish I were kidding. Helping him when he couldn’t help himself made me feel good about myself, but it did NOT make me want to become a professional poo catcher.

But I’ve seriously digressed. Where was I? Oh yes, Laura’s butt doctor. After thoroughly stumping her PCP, the gastroenterologist, and a pelvic floor therapist (a.k.a the pooping coach), she ended up at the colo-rectal specialist.

At the first appointment, we sat and chatted about labor and feelings of glass shards in the rectum during childbirth and the numerous possibilities for chronic constipation. And then ... and then we were caught completely off guard. I mean, I guess we should have considered that the butt doctor might want to do a butt inspection, but we didn’t consider any such thing. Not until he said, “drop your pants and bend over the table” or something like that, anyway.

The results of this sneak attack on Laura’s trap door? Another test. One that wouldn’t be a surprise at all, but rather a full rear assault. Laura was getting an ARM test – Ano-rectal Manometry test. Doesn’t Ano-rectal Manometery sound like a weapon used in a war? “Surrender now or you will experience the full power of our Ano-rectal Manometery!”

Yesterday was the test. We went to a big open field, and when the time of our appointment came, a large saucer-shaped thing flew over us, sucked Laura up onto a large exam table, and a green man stuck massive probes into the nether regions of her digestive system.

Actually, we went to the doctor’s office and there was no saucer, just a green man and anal probing. Doctor Green (get it? Green man? Har!) pulled out (stuck in?) his probes and got to work.

The first probe was a dry sponge thing, which based on Laura’s facial expressions and the way she attempted to powderize my hand, must have hurt like ... well, hurt like a serious anal probing. At some point in here, she emphatically declared, “You are SOOOO getting a prostate exam” at which time I pointed at Evy, “Me? This is her fault, not mine.” Anyway, with the sponge as a rectal resident, she then had to, “squeeze like you’re on a crowded elevator with your boss and you have a fart that is really trying to come out.”

The next step was to send a balloon spelunking in there. He then started to pump it up, “Tell me when it feels like you’d recognize that you might need to go to the bathroom soon.” She didn’t say this, though I think it would have been appropriate, “you have a balloon shoved up my a$$ and I’m supposed to tell you when it feels like there’s something in there that wants to come out? Seriously?” As he continued to pump, she also had to tell him when “you’d be looking for a bathroom” and finally, “when you’d push the kids down to get there first.”

The final probe was finger applicated, if you know what I mean. While Laura writhed in agony on the table, the Green man did his best to piss off the nerves running to her pelvic region. Supposedly he did this to see if they were damaged (they were). That’s what he said, but it sure looked to me like he was doing it to damage the nerves himself. And then like frosting on a cake, he announced after torturing her for a while, that the probe was in wrong and he had to do it all again.

About this time Evy picked up and ate a green Skittle that I’d dropped on the butt doctor’s floor. Wouldn’t that make a great Facebook status? “Just ate a green skittle off the butt doctor's floor.”

Also about this time, the equipment technician announced that he was “anal about his data”. Laura announced, and rightfully so, “I’m the only one in the room allowed to use the phrase ‘anal about that’ right now.” She later conceded that the doctor was also allowed that liberty, given that he had his finger stuck in her back door.

So, 45 minutes of probing later, the doctor beamed us back to earth and gave us the results. Laura’s involuntary rectal muscles are apparently confused. Instead of relaxing when she pushes, they squeeze harder. It’s hard to get poop out that way.

And so, at least all the probing resulted in a prognosis. Nothing would have been worse than going through all that crap (har!) for nothing. To my glee, the doctor did, however, say, “and you’re a bigger woman” during some part of the discussion allowing me to throw in the standard, “did he just call you fat?” remark. I thought it was really funny. No one else did. Alas, the life of the easily amused.

And since this is Laura’s healthy living blog, I have to add that as we left the office and I said, “Let’s swing by Costco and get a Great American Chocolate Cake as comfort food to make you feel better.” She replied, “No, John, that’s what you want for comfort food.” I responded, “Fine. Lets swing by and pick up a stalk of celery then. Whatever. Sounds like crappy (har!) comfort food to me.” Aren’t you proud of her, though? I am. (And I still want chocolate cake).

Next up: back to the poop coach for anal electro-therapy. Sounds shockingly stimulating. The idea being to shock the muscles into remembering their actual job. This is the same idea behind spanking your kids when they’re bad. “Relax. I said RELAX! Dang-it! That’s it, 3 ... 2 ... 1 ... ZAP! Next time do as you’re told.” Good times.