IBS: A humorous Look at a Posterior Predicament.

IBS: A Humorous Look at a Posterior Predicament.

May 11, 2017 | Posted in: chronic illness; support, Chronic Life, IBS, Testing

My raunchy rump has been very bad lately, so I think that qualifies me as a bad-ass. Well, it’s not actually my rear end that’s been naughty, it’s the things inside of it. You know.

I hate to even say the names. I never thought I was a prude, but a few years ago, when that part of my anatomy started really acting up, or should I say acting out, all of sudden this whole new vocabulary of body parts came into my world.

I’ve had IBS for about 40 years and I rarely told anyone because it had that B word in it. Now, after all I’ve been through over the past few years, the B word seems so tame, I could probably write a song about it. If I could write songs, that is. Maybe I’ll try a poem.

Here goes:

Inside my butt is my bowel.
That word is not really so foul.
It could be much worse.
I would have to curse,
Had my given name been Colin Powell.

OK, I won’t quit my day job. But here’s the thing, I did have to quit my day job. Click To Tweet Not to write poetry, but because my tush has been acting so poopy. And to figure out this misbehavior, there have been, shall we say … punishments.

For example, the Balloons and Party Hats test. I think it has another medical-ese name, but I don’t remember it. That happens when your heinie highjacks all your brain cells.

How it works is someone in a lab-coat sticks a balloon up your keister. Not the balloons the carnival clowns make that they tie up in knots to look like an elephant. Although when it’s in there, it feels that big. And, who knows, maybe those lab-coat people are moonlighting? Maybe they’re really clowns or carnies. I mean, what kind of person wants a job sticking balloons up the wazoo?

In fact, when I asked the clowns, I mean, the lab-coated techs, what they say when they’re at a party and someone asks them what they do for a living, I didn’t get a good answer.

(I really did ask them, by the way. What else do you talk about when you’re in my predicament?)

Sometimes the carnies, I mean, the techs, fill the balloons with water instead of air – like the water balloons you dropped on people from the third-floor window of your college dorm. Oh, you didn’t drop water balloons in college? Me neither, but I’ve heard about it.

So anyway, when I went in for my punishment, a very nice nurse had me lie on a hospital bed on my left side and face the wall. Which was kind of her because who wants to face the person who’s messing around between your cheeks? Then, someone came in to assist her. I couldn’t see this assistant because I was facing the wall, and I don’t know if she wore a lab-coat. Maybe she was a clown or a carnie.

I don’t know why it took two people to manage the balloons. I guess it’s no fun to play without friends.

After the friends were done playing with their water balloons, they started putting other things in my fanny, too. I think they were back there behind me looking around for fun props to use.

“Hey, there’s a stethoscope, let’s try that.” “Oh, what about that land-line phone receiver?” “Look! A vase of flowers!”

I don’t think they found an actual party hat, but they should consider adding that to their repertoire because balloons and party hats naturally go together.

The most amazing thing about all this is that me and all my private body parts survived. I thought I would die of embarrassment or humiliation. I didn’t. I thought I could never look anyone in the eye again because of the blow to my dignity. I have. I’m a bad-ass.

It wasn’t fun, but it’s funny.

For me, that’s the key. Whatever punishments I have to endure, I will find the humor in it. Click To Tweet I’ve had so many procedures and tests, and my nether-regions have been ogled at by so many strangers, I should charge a fee for nude modeling. That very thought is funny.

These appointments are always a bit of an assault on my modesty, and I have to steel myself every time. But once they’re over, and even in the midst of them, I can’t help but joke about them. In these predicaments, laughter really is the best medicine.

Sometimes, the most embarrassing situations are hilarious when we talk about them. Click To Tweet Come clean and get a good laugh. It’s the best salve for my bruised ego.

As for my raunchy rump, I think I’ll try Preparation-H.

IBS: A humorous look at a posterior predicament.

Karen writes about the humorous side, er, end, of her bowel disorders as an antidote to her embarrassment about them. She may not outlive the IBS she’s had for over 40 years, but she’s determined to beat the embarrassment.
She also blogs about her adventures as a homebody at www.thewellnestedlife.com.
Find Karen on FaceBook and on Twitter @karendebonis.  Or send her an email here: karen@thewellnestedlife.com.  If you don’t hear right back from her, she’s probably napping.

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