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Piles Of Trouble

Piles Of Trouble

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To say the last couple of weeks have been some of the worst of my life would be an understatement. After the drugged haze of post-op painkillers finally washed out of me, I found the courage to talk about it. Warning: it’s graphic and pretty gross.

 

What happened to me was so…. err, well, really disgusting I guess. The kind of thing that robs you of all dignity.

 

Let’s just say that haemorrhoids (or piles) are really horrible, and incredibly painful.

 

That’s the first stage of haemorrhoids, and I now know that there are three stages (maybe more). The second stage is when they thromboses. That is really very painful. The third stage (discovered by neglect, pretending they would just go away) is when they Prolapse. Stage three is the most excruciating agony a person can endure.

 

When you combine all three, Prolapsed Thrombosed Haemorrhoids, you are really in deep, deep trouble. And pain like you can never imagine.

 

That’s what happened to me about three weekends ago when I ignored a painful but small haemorrhoid and commenced doing 500kms driving a cage over the course of that weekend. During that time, and I’m not saying that is why it got worse, it got worse. It prolapsed and thrombosed until I took myself to bed hoping I would die in my sleep.

 

I woke up (dammit) and discovered the pain and swelling was even worse than before and I knew it was time I saw my GP.

 

I rode my bike to his office in the city in agony, told my GP what happened. He stuck his head up my arse and exclaimed ‘FAR OUT! Let’s get you into hospital STAT’. A haemorrhoid had thrombosed (veins bulging) and prolapsed (think your insides, but on the outside) right. out. of. my. fucking. butt. (Please do NOT Google this without having a sick bag handy).

 

Somehow I rode to hospital where they immediately administered 15mg of morphine and everything went wobbly and momentarily I forgot what was happening.

 

The next few days are a total blur, but after discovering my health insurance covered me for basically nothing I had to transfer hospitals overnight and it was going to be the next day before any operation was going to happen.

 

 

Surgery went ahead the next day but it wasn’t until the day after that, that the Surgeon came to see me with the worst news. The situation was quite dire and they were unable to remove all of it, and due to the size and swelling, I was going to have to come back in six week’s time and do this all again.

 

With so much swelling and continuing intense agony, the situation did indeed get worse.

 

I couldn’t slash. I just could not take a wizz for the life of me.

 

Later I found that this was due to the swelling my full bladder was creating increased pressure on that swelling, and the only thing to do was insert a catheter.

 

Down the eye of my wanger. Can this get any better?

 

Well yes, and no. After a few days I was sent home, still in incredible pain but after having a good breakfast I was able to slash, and thought that everything was going A OK. Not so.

 

That first night home I had at least a litre of fluid built up in my bladder, pressing down on my guts causing incredible pain where surgery had just happened. However, do you think I could let go of a single drop?

 

No. Nu-uh. Not happening. I tried everything to let go of a drop of piss and nothing happened. I swear I felt like I was going to explode, my guts was bulging worse than ETs and yet I just couldn’t go.

 

Back to Emergency and BLAMMO another long term catheter was stuffed down the eye of my anaesthetised flaccid manhood, and I was sent home with a lovely array of piss-bags that I could use to strap to my leg or just carry around like an elegant see-through man bag.

 

It was at this point that I realised, all dignity was completely lost. Never to return. Never. Never, ever, ever.

 

The thought of riding was futile. I could barely sit on a chair without squealing in agony. Those days post op and trying to manage at home, were the worst of all. I didn’t know if this was just how it went, they said it would be unpleasant, but this horror? If I had a gun, I would have used it. On my butt. I would have shot my own sphincter out rather than endured this dignity-raping evil phenomenon from Hell.

 

At the end of that week, or something like eight days after the initial surgery, I decided something was not right. This could not possibly be acceptable. I was still in utter agony. Imagine a row of 1000 horses lined up, kicking you up the butt one after another for a few hours and you can imagine the pain…

 

I had to be taken to my GP by car, carrying my piss-bag and was quickly told I had a raging infection and needed more antibiotics to get things under control, and hopefully get the swelling back down and pain levels more manageable.

 

Luckily this did the trick and within two days I was at a much more comfortable level of existence and thoughts of trying to find a 44 Magnum to blow my own arse out were waning. I was going to make it. In a weird twist my GP had to prescribe something pretty heavy for the pain I was enduring.

 

Tramadol, a strong synthetic Codeine based painkiller, wasn’t working after swallowing them for two weeks and I needed something else. So now I can say that I have tried oxy. He gave me Endone which the active ingredient is oxycodone, the stuff you buy on the street if you know the wrong people, and the stuff that can get you hooked pretty badly.

 

Now I know why. That shit that is some really strong synthetic pain relief. Waking up in pain I took one on an empty stomach and to this day I believe that that morning, I transcended light and turned into a brilliant being made of blue light and magic pixie dust, and I could hover ten inches above the ground at will.

 

Four days after the antibiotics kicked in I was ready to rip the catheter out and fling it at passing cars.

 

Off down to ER and explain my story and allow another stranger (nurse, Dr, GP, Surgeon etc) to stick their head up my butt. Of course I exaggerate, but truly, the act of offering up your bum for people to inspect curiously is so deeply horrifying I cannot move past it. Yet the amount of times I have bared my tackle to (medical) strangers in the last two weeks is dumbfounding. And not one time was it enjoyable.

 

Long story short ER agreed to remove the catheter, and I was a free man once again. Able to take a slash, albeit painfully through a damaged urethra.

 

Straight back onto the bike I went. Swelling down, piss bag retired, you have no idea how good the rush felt that day. It was sublime. It revitalised me and the S1000R was singing in the sun, the tires nice and warm and the roads even warmer, everything was working perfectly.

 

That was the single most excruciating painful event I have ever endured and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

 

Trust me motorcyclists, beware. Piles really are a total pain in the arse.

 

Get ’em seen to as soon as you notice something ain’t right. It is NO FUN AT ALL but don’t be stupid like me and think it will just get better and go away, it won’t – you gotta get help.

 

Until next time, stay upright (insert bum jokes in the comments below – I’ve heard them all).

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