Bum Rap

When I turned forty a few years ago, I did everything that was expected of me. I took inventory of my life, had a small mental breakdown, a substantial mid-life crisis and I completed all of those recommended baseline medical tests that firmly usher in middle age.

Except one.

I did not have a colonoscopy. The idea of a scope up the chute was more than I could bear. If anyone was going to be that far up into my body, I felt we ought to at least share a cigarette afterward and unfortunately, I'd just kicked the habit.

Well, here we are a couple of years down the road and the details of Farrah Fawcett's illness hit the mainstream media. I read about her plight with sympathy and a cringe. Anal cancer.

Awful.

And scary.

I couldn't help but read all the gory details and in doing so, a couple of the higher risk factors grabbed my attention. It seems that women who have had cervical cancer and smokers are several times more likely to develop the disease. Both gave me pause. Then, I happened to Google the risk factors for colorectal cancer.

Oh. my. God. (again, the internet and easy information access may aggravate one's OCD tendencies)

So, last week, I picked up the phone and tried to schedule an appointment with a proctologist. I say, "tried" because while speaking with the doctor's nurse, I asked a few questions about the initial exam, chickened out and said I'd have to call her back.

Which is stupid, I know.

But it's very special territory, there.

And the doctor is a man.

Look, the cerebral part of me knows that he is a doctor, that he's probably seen it all and that one ass is likely the same as the next except for variations in dimples and hair but still, DIGITAL RECTAL EXAM! By a man who's not my husband! Do they use stirrups or is one expected to um...bend over? And the colonoscopy itself? Gratefully, they knock you out for the actual procedure but I understand that the preparations the night before are their own special brand of pergatory.

Dread. Anxiety. Barely contained PANIC.

Of course, because I am now fixated on all of the horribleness surrounding the imminent test and its results, I am now acutely aware of my ass. I purchase flushable wipes. I'M RECOMMENDING THEM TO FRIENDS.

Years ago, we were told about my paternal grandmother and how one night, she got up looking for some relief. She reached into the drawer, pulled out a tube of Preparation H and dabbed a wee bit of ointment on her inflamed behind. Then she screamed. The tube turned out to be Crest and her ass was on fire. I used to laugh myself senseless over that story. Now? Not so much. I take hemorrhoids very seriously because THEY COULD BE ANAL CANCER IN DISGUISE.

So, I am going to suck up all of this irrational fear and call the doctor for an appointment. I just have one question.

What kind of small talk do you make when a doctor has his finger between your buttocks?