On going to the butt doctor

12/8/2016

I went to the GI doctor today. I do this once a year.

For the past several years, I’ve had nothing to report. All was well on the Crohn’s disease front. Lately, though, I’ve been having a little trouble again. Which sucks to have to say out loud, because I don’t want to have Crohn’s disease and fare better when I can forget that I do.  

But what super sucks, even more than having the disease itself, is having to admit to my doctor that I’m struggling. Why, you ask?

Because the GI doctor is the butt doctor, that’s why.

This visit started out much like they all do: First, a nurse came to get me. I got weighed, temperatured, pulsed, med checked, questioned. And blood pressured.

“One hundred and twenty-three over sixty-five,” the nurse said, as she removed the cuff from my arm. She looked at my chart. “That’s on the high side for you, isn’t it?”

It was. My BP runs on the lower end of things, usually about 100/60.

I looked up at her. “Yeah. Probably because I was greeted with that when I walked in.”

Does anyone else think it's weird that the reflex hammer is sitting right there next to the lube? It gives the impression that they somehow go together. Which leads to a mental image I recommend not giving in to. 

“You think maybe you guys could work on your exam room ambiance a little bit?” I was (mostly) joking, but why would any place of business use a bottle of lube as décor? The nurse said the bottles were left out like that in every room, just sitting there on the counter. Ready for action. A statement piece, really, only these bottles of EZ Lubricating Jelly say “Oh, aren’t you in for a treat today?!"

But the laughter and joking around between me and my nurse was all a distraction, a cover for the serious business at hand. We both knew the truth: a rectal exam was impending. (Cue that music that they play on The Price is Right when contestants lose. It’s like a sad trombone but with more flair.)

Now I don’t know about you guys, but I’m kind of sensitive about my ass. Not my actual derriere, the muscle part—I’m pretty whatever about that. I try to look back at it at least once a month, just to ensure that it’s still there. No, I’m talking about my inner ass. Shouldn’t your inner ass be some kind of temple, really? I know I prefer not to have random people poking around in mine. Which is unfortunate for someone with inflammatory bowel disease, because let me tell you, all of the medical people want a piece of that. They all want to talk about it, examine it. Take it to dinner, maybe. It’s All Ass, All The Time when I go to GI Specialities in Lincoln. (I invite any GI-focused practice to borrow "All Ass, All the Time" as a tagline. Copyright pending.)

I learned about the ass fixation of this place the hard way. When I was twenty-two and quite sick, I had my first visit to GI Specialties. My new doctor—youngish, not bad-looking in a Dracula kind of way-- asked me many, many questions about the state of my behind. And then the ultimate, the question that there was no way I could have prepared myself for: “And, to be clear, you’re not having anal sex?”  Best part: my mom was in the room with me. I turned every shade of red and shook my head. “Okay, that’s good,” he replied. “That’s not something you’re ever going to be able to do, just so you know.” I was fine with that. My mom? Equally fine with that.

So at this recent visit, my nurse practitioner, Rebecca, comes in, and predictably, we talk about my butt for awhile. Then we talk about poop. Because if there’s one thing that GI doctors like to talk about more than butts, it’s bowel movements. Honesty, my life has been altogether too shit-centric for years—first it was mine, but then I got that under control. Then I had kids, and anyone with kids knows that at least half of parenting is cleaning up poop.

But I digress. Let’s get back to talking about butts.

I halfheartedly tried to talk Rebecca out of the butt exam. I mean, aren’t there better ways to get to know each other?

I’m not sure I’d ever seen Rebecca for a visit before. Since I only go once a year, and the office randomly assigns me to whichever APRN is available when my appointment is due, I’ve seen many. But I’ll remember Rebecca now. I liked her a lot. She was funny and kind and she seemed like someone I’d enjoy having a couple of drinks with. Also, she had fantastic hair. I found myself wishing that she didn’t have to look at my butt, which I was convinced would unnecessarily destroy any positive vibes she was feeling back towards me. My butt isn’t pretty. I tried to tell her this.

But she persisted. And I, knowing the fight was pointless, dropped my drawers and gritted my teeth.

It was quick, relatively painless. Rebecca is a professional, let me tell you. At the end, she told me that my ass wasn’t even in the Top Five worse asses she’s ever seen, which was reassuring. 

I got a prescription for a new butt medicine, got commended on already having my flu shot for the year (Gold Star!), and then I was sent toddling on my way.

That’s what it’s like to go to the butt doctor.

Now you all know.