The Tale of My Tail End or How Many Words Can I Use to Describe a Part of Anatomy (Warning: Graphic Language Used)

One of the reasons for my relative blog silence lately is that I have been recovering from surgery. While it wasn’t necessarily major surgery, it was an invasive procedure that doctors estimated to resolve in about a week, but instead, took over 6 weeks. It’s a little embarrassing to describe, but I’m sure we can all be grown-ups about it.



For several months, I experienced rectal bleeding for no apparent reason. By apparent, I mean that I knew nothing had been up in the poop chute and I there were no discernibly difficult bowel movements to cause aforementioned bleeding. At first, my primary care physician assumed it was a result of taking Naproxen, an anti-inflammatory prescription I used when I injured my ankle. But when I stopped taking the drug, the bleeding continued. It never coagulated or stopped, so I became concerned. And I was tired of shoving gauze in there. ..


I went back to my PCP and she suggested an anuscopy. Believe me… not NEARLY as pleasant as it sounds! An orifice that is by its very nature designed to be exit-only, does not joyfully accept the insertion of cold steel shoehorns and a tiny camera. When this adventure into my dark parts was complete, my crack medical team determined that I had a mass in my rectum that was irritated and bleeding. Now, if I had been poked with foreign objects, I’d be a little irritated, too, but my point is…I left the office that day with a surgeon referral.


After a few less than blissful encounters with insurance people, and the rescheduling of the surgery, the day finally arrived. My neighbor drove me to the hospital in what was essentially the middle of the night…I had to be there at 5 a.m. for a 7 a.m. procedure. … and another friend arrived just as I was being prepped. I felt anxious, but mostly relieved that it was about to be over. I remember noticing the clock in the operating room striking exactly 7:00 and I thought to myself, “Oh, wow! We’re on time!” and I was out. No counting backwards, no deep breaths, just …out.


I awoke to a perkier than necessary nurse requesting that I open my eyes and breath deeply. I felt woozy, a little disoriented and my ass hurt like hell! The nurse explained that the mass was successfully removed, but was rather large and needed to be removed via an incision in my right buttock. The plan when I went in was to enter the rectum, retrieve the mass and then exit the rectum, but evidently, the surgeon’s surprise at the sheer volume of the growth sent him cutting holes in my ass cheek! Be that as it may, I was informed that no sutures were used on the incision, just the medically sound and always infallible Super Glue was applied to keep the skin together. I knew at that point that I would rue this day.


Several days of discomfort passed and when I called the office to schedule a follow-up visit, I advised them that the incision site had not stopped bleeding. The office suggested I come in first thing the next morning. This did not bode well for me…or my derriere. The surgeon, who resembled Dr. Oz a tiny bit, roughly accessed the area and declared that I, indeed, had an open wound. His assessment was not surprising, but his treatment was. “We’re just going to clean it and let it heal. Take sitz baths, keep it clean and dry, come see me again in 2 weeks.” I wish I had a job where I didn’t have to take responsibility for my mistakes like that guy! So. That was that. While I was not 100% compliant with the sitz baths, I did do my diligence in keeping the area as clean, dry and undisturbed as possible. However, when you are the sole caretaker for an 83 year-old and a 5 year-old, rest is not something that comes easily. The wound continued to open over time until it completely exposed the underlying tissue. Its size accommodated my thumb, both in length and width, so I certainly wanted to be careful with region.


This development became more than uncomfortable…it inhibited certain physical activities. I think you know what I am trying to say. No? Go ask your mother. The Prince is a gentleman – patient, understanding, compassionate – but still harbored concern over my booty and the status of healing. However, he wanted no part of seeing it or discussing it at length. I don’t blame him.


So after 7 weeks, I am completely healed, pathology results were good – no sign of cancer, so YAY! – and I no longer have a pain in my ass. Unless, of course, you count that 83 year old and 5 year old …. :)

How Does That Make You Feel?

My emotions lately have run the gamut from depressed to elated, from giddy to livid…and back again. I have no reason to believe I suffer from bipolar disorder or any serious mental imbalance (although some might argue otherwise) because all those emotions are situational in their basis. It mind boggling that I can change moods so quickly…going from laid-back mommy to raging evil queen in 2.2 seconds!



Relationships with people are so delicate that I wonder sometimes if I have irrevocably changed their course with my emotional outbursts. I witness my daughter jump and recoil from me, I receive of look of incredulity from my boyfriend, and I usually elicit a “whoa” from most other folks.


Is The Pie destined to spend thousands of dollars on therapy in the future simply to determine that my yelling damaged her self-esteem? Does The Prince think I am a raving lunatic when tears leap to my eyes for no apparent reason? When Dad looks at me like I have just insulted his mother, is it because I inadvertently unleashed the bitch that resides inside?


How can I possibly be normal if I can be in the middle of a benign conversation one minute and then inviting someone to engage in coitus with themselves the next? I baffle myself. And that’s WITH medication!!


Good thing I have counseling tomorrow….

Measuring by Pie

Mother’s Day is always a little bittersweet for me, but this year, it was a laugh riot! The Pie’s teacher at Preschool arranged an interview with her students about their mothers that would ultimately be used for a Mother’s Day card. The card and a lovely little flowerpot were bestowed upon me to celebrate me giving birth to the greatest child on earth…but the card trumped all previous gifts and following are the details revealed about me:



WHAT IS YOUR MOTHER’S NAME? “Jackie”


WHAT DO YOU CALL HER? “Mama”


HOW OLD IS SHE? “30” (I love my daughter!)


HOW TALL IS SHE? “8 feet”


HOW MUCH DOES SHE WEIGH? “267 pounds” (ok…NOT loving my daughter so much now. This is her favorite number and by NO means my current weight!)


WHAT COLOR IS HER HAIR? “brown”


WHAT IS THE PRETTIEST THING ABOUT YOUR MOTHER? “her eyes…they look like mine!”


WHAT DOES SHE DO DURING THE DAY? “she goes shopping and reads magazines”


WHAT IS HER FAVORITE TV SHOW? “grown-up shows”


WHAT IS HER FAVORITE DRINK & SNACK? “Dr. Pepper and anything she wants”


WHAT DOES SHE COOK? “pancakes and McDonalds”


WHAT DOES SHE LIKE TO DO FOR FUN? "do grown-up stuff and go on dates”


WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE THING TO DO WITH YOUR MOTHER? “play”


WHAT IS HER FAVORITE THING TO DO WITH YOU? “snuggle” (love her again!)


WHERE DO YOU LIKE TO GO WITH YOUR MOTHER? “Wal Mart”


WHAT IS THE ONE THING SHE SAYS TO YOU MOST OFTEN? “no” (not true!)


HOW WILL YOU CELEBRATE MOTHER’S DAY? “eating and drinking and playing”


WHAT DOES YOUR MOTHER WANT FOR MOTHER’S DAY? “her butt to stop hurting”


Some answers were pretty accurate, but others were simply ridiculous or too revealing. Especially the last one! I do occasionally express that I have a pain in my ass, but this particular pain is a result of surgery and its complications. It’s nice to know she pays attention, at least!

The Life of Pie

Today The Pie and I celebrated her 5th birthday with a breakfast of pink pancakes, pizza for dinner and a friend sleeping over. I can’t believe it’s been five years since that little creature made her debut at 5:29 p.m. on a Friday evening.

I checked in to the hospital the night before, after a dinner of gyros and root beer. My friend Becky was planning to be with me throughout labor and delivery so she with me during registration. I was settled in my room, given an Ambien and Pitocin and we were left to our own devices. I don’t recall exactly what the topic was, but we talked and giggled like little girls practically all night. I was on a fetal heart monitor (which we called a He-tal Fart Monitor – after an hilarious scene from a movie called Micki and Maude), so I was unable to get up for any reason…even to use the restroom.


At 6:00 the next morning, more Pitocin was administered and I began to experience labor. It was no more uncomfortable than menstrual cramps but knowing it would result in something fabulous kept me going. At exactly noon on April 20, my water broke. For the life of me, I will never know why, but I asked, “What color is it?” The nurses determined meconium was present, so they attached a flushing tube to me. For the next five hours, I experienced moderately severe contractions and remember holding the hand of The Pie’s Poppy while he prayed and squeezing until I thought the man would yell out in pain!


At 5:02 p.m., my doctor waltzed in and said, “Let’s get her out of there,” as if she were a POW or something. Within minutes, I was in the delivery room, receiving a spinal block – which left my entire back bruised – and being draped for a C-section. When they finally let Becky in, I felt relief that someone could tell me what was going on…but she is, shall we say “vertically challenged” and couldn’t see over the drape. I asked, “When are they going to start ?” and was answered with laughter. The doc advised me that they had already made the cut and were pulling my daughter out even as I asked the question.


The glorious moment is a little blurry for me, but I do remember waiting to hear her little cry. It seemed to take forever from the moment they pulled her from my body – a nurse crying, “oh, how cute!” – until she took her first breath without my assistance. In that moment, I discovered that I received the fulfillment of a wish I never spoke, a dream I never knew I had and the answer to a prayer I never dared to ask.

Random "Shower" of Thoughts

I do my best thinking in the shower. It’s the only place that I really have to myself, with no one asking me to put something in them, rub something on them or do something for them. Usually, I can put together some pretty incredible strings while soaping up, but today, I felt disjointed and ended up with a real stream-of-consciousness vibe going on.

As I shampooed my hair, I started thinking about breakfast (because I was hungry) and then food in general. I wondered about the brave souls who first ate a coconut, an artichoke or crab legs…they seem so labor intensive and yet are quite delicious. Those people must have been REALLY hungry to work so hard for the little bit of food they found. I would have been incredibly pissed off. But that’s just me.

Now the rinse: I wish I looked good bald. Not that I know if I look bad…I’ve never been bald, but the time and effort it takes for me to do my hair seems ridiculous. I could be sweeping or mopping or something else more productive with my time! But because I don’t want to be stared at and my new boyfriend (I can’t believe it either!) likes me to have hair, I guess I will soldier on.



The soap-up: I am so proud to personally know people who have served in the military…and I need to make some calls about insurance and home health care after my surgery. (Surgery is scheduled for April 25th and involves a tender area of my nether regions and will require dressing changes. I refuse to ask my father or daughter to complete this task!!) Did I hear the phone ringing?
Shaving: I want to back in time and meet the first chick that shaved her legs and/or armpits. Then I want to punch her in the throat for starting this laborious trend. Again…a lot of work, for not a lot of reward. I sense a theme!
Foot Scrub: I need to come up with a yummy sugar-free dessert for cooking out with the fella (his name is Carl) and his son (Cody) and son’s girlfriend (Heather) this week. That will be fun! Why was I so nervous about changing my Facebook relationship status? And why did we have to discuss it before it happened? Technology makes us weirdoes.
Final Rinse: I like him. Really. A lot. I like his kid, too. A lot. Did I hear the phone ringing?

Crikey...I Got a Live One!!

I once heard a tale about a creature “out there” that is nice, thoughtful, funny and kind. This being allegedly appreciates women for who they are, not what their measurements are or if they give it up on the first date. Experts spend countless hours studying the courting and mating habits of these subjects and report that, while they are quite rare, they actually do exist. And I found one!

I wasn’t sure what to do with it at first…it was entirely foreign to me. My initial consideration was to run in the opposite direction, fearing that it was a hallucination or a harbinger of an impending mental breakdown. I remember being told all my life that these oddities were just waiting for me, but I supposed I always just missed them and ended up with a sub par specimen. My experiments with these creatures invariably failed spectacularly. Each one concluded with results of infidelity, abuse, low motivation, dishonesty, inconvenience, or general malfeasance.

The aforementioned subject in my care exhibits traits of humor, intelligence, kindness, compassion and attraction; those rarely combined in nature. Under further examination, the specimen is pleasing to the eye, generous, and elicits laughter and general feelings of warm fuzziness. When in the company of this elusive creature, the examiner feels, desired, enjoyed, appreciated and very well liked.

I am of the opinion that I shall retain full exclusive rights to this rare being for evaluation, observation and study. With careful consideration and ample exposure, the theorem that a Good Man exists for me will be proven!

Elder Abuse

Abuse in all of its permutations has been in the news for years. Some forms get more press than others, and only in an extreme case do you hear about elder abuse. In college, I delved into a research project on the topic and found myself horrified at the tales of caretakers allowing geriatric patients to lie in their own excrement for days at a time, failing to provide proper medical attention, withholding food as punishment or perpetrating horrific acts of violence upon their charges.


But what about when the elders are the abusers? Do we hear about when the patient turns on his caretaker and inflicts violence or threatens to do so? What steps must a caretaker follow to ensure safety – for themselves and the elderly? I never really considered it a possibility until today. A surreal and shockingly unexpected episode took place in my kitchen this afternoon that I am loath to forget for some time.

My 83-year-old father took a swing at me…with his metal cane... because I couldn’t understand or follow what he was saying to me. The conversation began innocently enough; he closed the patio door and said he was going to spray a hornet’s nest. When I inquired as to the location of said hornet’s nest, my father suddenly reversed in age about 40 years and began loudly spewing obscenities at me, asking if I ever used my head for something other than growing hair. When I admonished him to stop yelling at me, that I was simply asking a question, he replied, “I’m going to beat some sense into you,” and swung his cane at my head.
My reflexes thankfully kicked in and I swatted the cane away before he actually landed a blow. I admit, somewhat reluctantly, that I immediately saw red and lost my cool, daring him to try the attack again. I reminded him that I am not my mother and he is not allowed to treat me in that manner. It was an instant change that took place…it was like he was somewhere else, in another time and he returned to just his usual grumpy self.




My father physically abused my mother for many years. I have a scar in the middle of my back as a result of me jumping between them when he brandished a butcher knife at her when I was 11. I have vivid memories of this six foot four inch man violently shoving and slapping my four foot 11 inch mother to the ground. He verbally abused her every day and once threw a bowl of stew against the wall above her head because it wasn’t hot enough.


Upon meeting my father these days, people comment about what a nice man he is and how sweet he is. They simply cannot fathom the rage that he carries from his childhood, from military service and other pressures he endured in his lifetime. I once shared with one of my best friends the kind of childhood I experienced and she refused to believe me, citing that he was always such a sweetheart. Sure…he was nice to everyone…except his family.


The past year presented a myriad of situations, issues and problems that I handled to the absolute best of my ability, but this one really stumped me. How can I possibly allow my daughter to witness violence coming from her grandfather, whom she adores? Fortunately, she was playing with her friends outside when this whole thing went down. But what if there is a next time? And what if next time, she sees him swing at me or hears him denigrate me? There is no explanation that is acceptable and I find myself embarrassed that it happened at all.


I never experienced physical abuse from a partner and always swore to myself that I would not tolerate it. But I think I gained some insight today into why women stay in abusive relationships…shame, embarrassment and humiliation are great motivators to keep secrets. But if something is ignored, it is likely to repeat itself until it properly mitigated – it’s true with abuse, maintaining a vehicle or a nasty rash.


Following a cooling off period, he apologized, but with little sincerity. I explained that he doesn’t just get to say “sorry” and forget about it. It must be at the forefront of his mind, so that his temper doesn’t become uncontrollable again. But I fear that even if he’s not losing his temper, he just may well be losing his mind.