Razors

Well today was the day for the removal of the rest of the demon polyp. I joked with the nurses about having my official “pain in the ass diagnosis.” I guess if I have to have an official diagnosis then I need a crown. Any reason to be a queen. I want a bedazzled set of butt cheeks made of diamonds. I think a crown would definitely help with my recovery.

I won’t know the results of the biopsy for a few days. But that’s honestly ok because right now my mind is occupied with the pain in my butt. If you’re squeamish or easily offended, I warn you now. Stop reading. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

But y’all!!!!!! I just know they did the exam down yonder and cut out the bad section. What I envision they did, and for all I know perhaps the they did, was turn my butthole inside out and stuff it with razors. I feel like I have the worlds largest hemorrhoid and then I went and sat on a cactus. I was not fully prepared for feeling like someone stuffed my butthole with fire ants. Again, technology has failed me. All those episodes of Star Trek that I watched as a kid made me believe that magic wand laser surgery would one day be a thing. Instead, we still have to cut on people like we’re cutting coupons from the Sunday paper.

Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful that someone actually CHOSE the career of colorectal surgery. I am also grateful that I didn’t have to have an ostomy. But it doesn’t stop me from feeling as if when I sneeze, my colon is going to hop out. And then there’s the thought of when I do go to the bathroom to free the poop dragon.

I have never in my life been scared to poop. Well, not unless you count the time I was super constipated after surgery (gasp) or, simply when I’m out in public. It’s really the stupidest fear that many women and some men all share. For some reason, we think that we are the only individuals who have ever had to poop. That’s right…the only one who deposits stink snakes and uses a toot horn. Why is it that pooping seems like something we should be so ashamed of? It’s almost like if we actually poop in a public toilet we automatically get assigned a scarlet P. I admit that I don’t really like when I walk into a green fog of someone else’s creation in the Belk bathroom but we have all been there. Then the thought crosses my mind…what if my poop shyness contributed to any of my issues?

It’s unlikely. It’s more likely a result of the immune suppressing medications I’ve taken through the years to control my rheumatoid arthritis. Regardless of the cause, I’m now in a predicament. Eventually, I will have to poop. My belly is already making noises that rival the pirate ships from the Pirates of the Caribbean. Lots of creaking and rolling. It’s foretelling that something is on the horizon. And as I lay here in the bed because I CANNOT SIT DOWN PROPERLY ON MY BEHIND, I ponder how this is going to go.

Earlier when I coughed, I was afraid my colon might make a surprise appearance. I imagined it popping out like those stupid birthday noisemakers. While that is seriously unlikely, it does make for a pretty impressive visual. Back to the business at hand, though. If it already hurts even when I’m not moving at all, and it hurts when I’m sitting down, and it hurts when I cough, then what is it going to feel like when I finally poop? The noises are getting louder. The gas is making its rounds. It’s probably sooner rather than later that I will find out if indeed they stuffed my pooter shooter with razors. I am thinking that is about what it’s going to feel like even though I’ve taken a dose of Colace.

Of all the things in this big wide world of worry, a tumor south of the border was not on my radar. I had my list of ways I didn’t want to die all figured out. #1 – fire, #2 murder, #3 drowning, #4 snakes, #5 being eaten alive by a bear. Rectal tumors didn’t make the top five. In fact, I don’t think they were on the list at all. For goodness sakes, being eaten by a bear seemed to cause more worry than what is potentially going on with me. And that’s precisely the problem with worry.

Life throws us curveballs. We end up in shock when they happen because we’ve spent so much time focused on things that, in that moment, don’t matter a hill of beans. All that precious time wasted worrying could have been better spent on something that mattered.

I can’t spend the next 13 days until my follow up appointment being worried to death about the what if’s. I could be impaled by a flying fence post instead. The point is this…whatever is meant to be is already in motion. It is out of my control. Even if I worry, it won’t change the outcome. It will only change the way I spend my time, my precious time. I can hope instead. I can hope that it’s all ok and life goes on. I can hope that if it is malignant then it is stage 1. I can hope that if it’s not stage 1 that the treatment can stop it in its track. And if all of the worst comes to pass, I can hope in the knowledge that God has me in the palm of His hands. I can rest easy knowing that my life is going according to His will and not my own.

It’s all about perspective at this point. The battle of the mind can define my future. My thoughts can impact my outcome. If you don’t believe it, talk to doctors who have seen the sickest patients recover in what can only be described as a miracle while patients who were only mildly sick took a downward spiral. What was the difference? Their mindset. Mind over matter, mama has always said. Oh but she didn’t say that it would be easy. Especially when you’re about to poop razors.