If you thought my story about my hemorrhoids went too far, stop reading this.........now!Last Thursday, I got up early and prepared for my visit to the colon and rectal doctor. Following the doctors orders, I emptied two Fleet enemas, and spent the next twenty minutes in the bathroom, stifling my screams, as the contents of those bottles did their job. Later that morning, I find myself sitting on the end of an examining table, with my pants off, and nothing between me and the rest of the world except for a small 'blanket' made out of blue paper. I am all alone in a room full of devices that would warm Dick Cheney's heart. All around are various tubes, pumps, and spreading tools, that are vaguely similar to items I have seen in Amsterdam sex stores, and read about in accounts of the Spanish inquisition. Finally the doctor comes in. He's not the most cordial, and my blood pressure is rising as he tells me to lay on my side, facing the wall. I grimace and grind my teeth while I wait for the inevitable examination. "Obviously that is too tender for me to examine in depth, but I can see that you have a fissure. You can put your clothes back on now.". That's it? No probing and digging? No torturous procedure with the nurse looking on while I squirm on the table? I don't care if this doctor is cordial or not, I like him.
So the diagnosis is some kind of geological formation, a fissure, no hemorrhoid. The doctor has told me that the cure is either change my diet, take Metamucil, and use a prescription cream, or have surgery that might make me incontinent. As far as I can see there is no contest on this one. I will change my diet.