I found a packet of soothing hemorrhoid wipes on the bathroom counter yesterday, and they aren’t mine. I haven’t suffered from hemorrhoids since about two weeks after my 5-year-old was born.
I remember sitting on my couch during a playdate, lamenting the fact that my butt hurt. “I don’t get it,” I said to my close friend, who’d also just had a baby. Her daughter was born a week after my son. “He didn’t come out of my ass, so why does it hurt so badly? The only thing I can think of is that it hurts because I’m sitting on it a lot while I’m holding and feeding him?”
My friend made a sympathetic noise, but then an idea came to her. “Do you think it’s hemorrhoids? A lot of women get them during childbirth. I’m wrestling with a nasty case of them myself.”
Since my older son is adopted, I’d never had to go through labor before. It was so nice to have friends with biological kids the same age as my older son who could inform me of stuff like this.
It did end up being hemorrhoids, but once they went away, they were gone for good.
My husband, on the other hand, hasn’t been so lucky.
I don’t know what he did to receive his first gift of hemorrhoids, but I would guess that it had something to do with drinking an assload of beer on a Saturday night and then having to poop a lot the next day. That seems to be what brings on his recurring cases, anyway.
(Aren’t I a classy writer? Aren’t you just sitting wherever you are—at work, at your kitchen table, in your newly renovated office, at a quaint little coffee shop—thinking, I’m so glad I ended up on this page. I know that today there is at least one thing I can thank the sweet Lord Jesus for, and that is that my eyes have been blessed by what I am reading on this page. I do not know what I would have done had I not read about drinking a lot and shitting the next day…)
I have to say, my husband was awfully proud of that damned hemorrhoid, at least during the few minutes of each day when he wasn’t crying about it. He nicknamed it “hemi” and walked around for three days begging me to let him show it to me.
“Come on, Shay,” he’d say. “Let me show you my hemi. The doctor said it was really big.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I kept responding. “No! Nobody wants to see your damned hemi.”
Finally, one day, I was sitting at my computer, minding my own business while pounding out what I’m pretty sure was some very inspirational and/or quality stuff like this post, getting so wrapped up in my work that I hadn’t even noticed that my husband had walked up next to me.
“Hey, Shay,” he said.
Reflexively, I looked up…
…and found myself face-to-face with my husband’s butt crack, which he was spreading apart with his hands so that I could get a better view.
“Can you see it? Can you see it? It’s a big one, right?” he asked excitedly from his bent-over position, as if he were personally responsible for the vein that had popped straight out of his ass. Which I guess, technically, he was.
“Goddammit,” I muttered, shaking my head and closing my laptop. I picked my computer up and started to walk down the hall toward our bedroom, where I could lock the door and get some work done without any further hemi sightings.
As I reached our room, I heard my husband, presumably fully clothed once again, saying, “JEEZ, Shay, grow up. It’s only a hemi.”
Anyway, when I saw the wipes resting on the bathroom counter yesterday, I figured that it was either too much holiday partying and the resulting poops OR the diarrhea-inducing antibiotics in this flu-infested household that had caused the hubs’s hemi to pop right back up and out again.
In either case, I think I’ll stay a safe distance from him for a few days, as my eyes are only just beginning to stop bleeding from the last hemi I was tricked into observing.
Don’t worry; I’ll get him back. I’m thinking of “forgetting” to take my birth control just to get pregnant and go through labor, deliberately pushing extra hard in the hopes of getting a hemi that I can show him when he least expects it.
Revenge is sweet, no?