[adult language and subject matter]
The Universe tossed me a bone this week.
And yet, at the same time, it delivered another painful lesson to remind me how stupid I am and that I am here for its own amusement.
I visited the cancer hospital, which was an experience in itself and humbling, and met with the colorectal surgeon to fix my rectal prolapse, or what two doctors agreed was a rectal prolapse – first the ER doctor, then my gut doctor, whom I wish had taken a closer look. Maybe he’s dealt with one too many assholes, me, to deal with another.
So, with the opinion of two doctors, I felt confident to make the following statement to the surgeon’s young, highly-attractive doctor in training: “I diagnosed it myself before going to the ER.”
Yes, I looked right into her brown eyes and I said it, selling it with confidence and pride. I should have added: “Give me a mirror and scalpel, hot stuff, and watch me repair it right now. Yes, that’s how awesome and brilliant I am.”
Hello, I’m the Universe. I love it when this douche bag gets overconfident. Nothing like a good backhand to the head to teach him a lesson. Wait, it’s about to happen.
After five minutes of talking about my medical history, it was off to the exam room and getting on my knees and bending over a custom-made, tilting exam table for having your rear-end examined or praying. Or both.
Now I have to mention at this point, as a reminder, as if you needed one, I’m a polarizing person in medical situations that some might consider to be stressful. People either think I’m Mr. Funny Guy dealing with a life of doctors, hospitals, and medical tests, or, on the flip side, the biggest jerk in the world.
Door number two, please.
Is there a more appropriate place than an operating or exam room for a joke to lighten the mood? I think not.
Like when the doctor tipped the table forward and my ass raised high in the air for the crammed, standing-room-only crowd of nurses : “Where can I get one of these for my bedroom?”
Or, how about this classic to the doctor after the scope went in and out and I pulled up my shorts up and faced him: “Well, that happened.” [Confused look by the doctor.] So, I tried to explain the joke: “That’s what Alec Baldwin said in the movie, State and Main, after he drove drunk, crashed with an underage girl in the car, and sent her walking home with a bad injury, then left the scene of the accident himself. ‘Well, that happened.'”
Clearly, I didn’t deliver the line correctly. More silence from the crowd.
This is the universe again. You are such a prick. You never learn. Time for your self-esteem buster.
“You don’t have a prolapse,” said the doctor.
“What did you say?”
“You have a blood clot, not a prolapse”
“Do I need surgery for that?”
Yes, my dear reader, I’ve been walking around for three days thinking I had a backside in need of surgical repair. Perhaps, a symptom of something worse, the C word. But at that moment, happiness flooded my brain and I could have kissed a few of the onlookers (you know who you are).
However, it occurred to me that two doctors had looked at my rump, “my lovely manly rump” (hey, a similar line was good enough for the Black Peas), and confirmed the diagnosis.
Or had I, super-idiot-pretend-doctor, planted the seed in their minds and they followed along?
And then I thought of my wife following the ER doctor’s directions and trying to push it back in place two times a day for the past three days, which according to the surgeon was about the worse thing you could do for it other than stabbing it with a rusty knife.
Hey, it’s an Edvard Munch painting. Oops, it’s just you in looking in the mirror.
Put me back on the bench and whip me for being too stupid to walk the planet.
Agreed. “I diagnosed it myself.” That’s rich. You fucking dickhead. That does make me laugh and it’s not easy to make me, the Universe, laugh. Good one.
But the best, most deflating moment came when I walked out of the exam room and looked down the hall, waved to the doctor and his two assistants, only to have them not notice because they were standing around laughing.
By the way, recounting this story now makes me feel icky inside. It’s one thing to be an idiot, it’s another to know you are and not be able to do anything about it. [hands on head; head hitting the desk over and over. Thud.]
I am like watching a train full of circus clowns derail and explode into a mushroom cloud of fire, flesh, and flaming red rubber noses falling to earth like meteors.
So, it’s two baths a day, four more days of suppositories, some ice packs, and a return visit in two weeks for my next bombing performance. I can’t wait.
Well, that happened.
Yes. Yes it did.