You're Getting Older
Eighteen years ago, I was lying on a bed, in a hospital, anticipating the arrival of my son. Actually, that’s the G-rated version. In reality, my labor had come on so fast that by 1:30 am, I was struggling to not push because my doctor was late and the nurses biting their nails asked me to wait.
Yeah, wait. Like labor is premeditated. Intentional. A take-it-or-leave-it kind of thing. Like I could hit hold, eat donuts and binge Stranger Things. But I tried. I tried to hold him in. I’ve never taken a six-pound poo but I imagine when it’s en route, it’s unstoppable too.
Three and a half hours after my water broke, my vagina went ahead with the plan forged from zillions of years of evolution. It delivered. I was simply the vessel for pain. That’s because I went au natural. No drugs, no epidural, not even a backrub.
At the time, what I didn’t know was, women seldom do this. So few choose it, that when word spread that a woman was gutting it out in the end room, my eyes opened after a particularly strenuous wave of labor to a room full of onlookers. Rubberneckers. My private affair quickly became a spectator sport.
Had I been able to speak, I might have said something like, “What the fuck?!” I’m told this is not an odd phrase to pour from the mouth of a woman in labor. But I couldn’t talk. Transition labor is one spastic cramp after another. There are no backup singers jiving to, “I get knocked down but I get up again!” You catch a breath while still underwater. You hit your threshold of pain and bite the bullet to head beyond. And, if you can speak, you swear. We’ve reviewed this.
My husband watched the computer etch continuous waves of labor on a monitor. The peaks exceeded the height of the screen. When they redlined, he let me know. He was obnoxiously excited. I managed to speak: “Shut the fuck up!” I’m told this is not an odd phrase to pour from the mouth of a woman in labor.
To ensure that my recovery was much more agonizing, while pushing, the resident snipped an episiotomy with scissors. I know! They slice your perineum like it’s a ribbon cutting. I felt like this doc was a little quick on the snip. Dr. Fucking Scissorhands in the house.
Which brings me to my point, albeit a long-winded one (damn that Irish heritage), which is:
Currently, I’m monitoring a small hard spot on my butthole.
The master of segues.
Some of you might wonder what I was doing “down there.” Eighteen years ago, I could have asked a whole room full of people the same thing except that a human was emerging from my snatch.
After a thorough Google search, I figure this lump is either the result of my episiotomic (yes, that’s my word) scar or the effect of hemorrhoids I got from straining to push him out. In either case, staring into the eyes of my wonderful child reminds me that it was worth the ‘rhoids. And a solid mass on my butthole. My son usually follows that with, “Mom, you said that out loud.”
Some of you might still be curious as to how I discovered my hard spot. Then again, most of you probably don’t care but you’re still reading.
Now who has the problem?
I was treating hemorrhoids. That’s what. I knew I had them and since a friend makes me feel guilty for using anything non-organic, I bought some organic, homeopathic essential oils for the butthole. That’s not exactly how it’s marketed. They call it a “formula.” I call it Poo-Hole Pourri. If you don’t know what real Poo Pourri is, you’ve been sharing second-hand smell. There should be legislation to forbid that. Or you should grow up.
When I treat my hemorrhoids with my essential oil, there’s only one way to ensure my target has been reached. That’s how I know about the spot. If you need further explanation, consider reading a book once in a while.
In any case, my “formula” does a good job of eliminating painful hemorrhoids. And since I finished menopause, I also treat a condition called vaginal dryness (a scientific way to say itch) with a separate organic lubricant.
Now, during the day, the only reason for me to get my “Wow, that was unexpected” face is when I accidentally tinkle in my panties.
Don’t make me laugh.
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