I do like a long dramatic gap between posts, especially
after I’ve been under the knife. It allows the more hopeful to think that I’ve
expired and so they are free from stumbling across any more of my aimless
meanderings. Sorry folks, I am still here and the latest surgery passed off
without incident. In fact I was sat up in a hospital bed watching Fifteen to
One and chowing down on a tuna sandwich just two hours after waking from my
anaesthetic induced slumber.
This was one thing that was different from last time. My
hernia operation did not render me cautious around food, which was dangerous
when immobile. Last year I managed to lose loads of weight, this time I sat and
munched away which has meant that some of my trousers are currently out of
service.
The medical experts advised me that I needed to stay
hydrated and to drink loads of water in the first few days after the operation.
In my defence I did my best and downed as much water as I could lay my hands
on, or so I thought.
After 3 days it occurred to me that the one thing I hadn’t
done since the operation was to have what is known in polite circles as a
number two. It hadn’t occurred to me to do so as the urge had not taken me, but
come that third day I awoke sensing movement down below. I headed to the toilet
and settled myself in for what I always expected to be a big one.
After 10 minutes of inactivity I realised that I might have
a problem. Don’t get me wrong, something was moving south but I sensed there
was going to be an issue. Whatever it was making a bid for freedom it was much
larger, and far more solid, that one usually expects.
I began to experience the associated pains that come with
attempting to pass what felt like a solid, and somewhat jagged, boulder through
a tiny gap. After considerable squirming and whimpering I came to the
conclusion that things had gone too far to back away from the inevitable.
Whatever was trying to leave my body was making a bid for freedom and I needed
to help it on its passage, so as to preserve mine.
Some Googling of symptoms occurred and thanks to the ladies
of Mumsnet I discovered that I had constipation, which, they all concluded, was
far more painful than childbirth (their controversial words, not mine). Their
solution was simple; I needed to get my hands on a suppository. The only
problem was that I could barely stand up without weeping in pain so walking to
a shop would be an excruciating experience for all concerned.
I heard a noise from outside the toilet door and realised
that the present Mrs Hayward was nearby, loading up the washing machine. I opened
the door very slightly and, in a weak and despairing voice, asked for her
assistance. I explained my predicament which I sensed was far too graphic for a
lady of her sensitive nature and asked her nicely, if slightly pathetically, if
she would go to a local pharmacy and purchase me the required item.
Quite rightly she questioned my assumptions and I explained
that the Internet had told me that suppositorys would resolve my immediate issues,
which caused her to become even more suspicious. Even so, my whimpering and
whining had the desired effect and she departed for the local Tesco Pharmacy.
As I’d got myself to my feet I spent the next 15 minutes
clutched to the sink as waves of pain from my derriere engulfed me. After what
seemed like a much longer time I heard the door open and I excitedly realised
that my suffering was soon to end.
I once again peered out from behind the toilet door to be
greeted with the present Mrs Hayward clutching a carrier bag.
“You have two options”, she proudly declared, and from the
bag she first produced some sort of medicine. I appreciated this, as I was sure
that it would help me to avoid any further painful episodes but I was also aware
that it would not provide me with the instant relief I was seeking.
Excitedly I saw her reach in to the bag to pull out the
desired suppositories, so imagine my surprise when from the bag the present Mrs
Hayward produced a carton of prune juice.
I stared disbelievingly. As far as I had been aware I’d made
a very specific request, none of which involved any form of fruit based
beverage. She explained, quite reasonably, that she’d discussed my symptoms
with the pharmacist and they had recommended this as a solution.
Now I’m not questioning the expertise or professionalism of
the pharmacist and I’m sure prune juice has many bowel relieving benefits but
they probably provide relief after, say, a couple of weeks, rather than the
more urgent timescale I was working to. In essence I think the pharmacist was,
in colloquial parlance, having a laugh.
In total shock I stared at the prune juice, and then at my
wife, and then back at the prune juice again. I wasn’t sure at that exact
moment whether to laugh, get angry, or cry, so I did a combination of all three
at the same time.
I have to confess that we had a slight disagreement over her
purchases from Tesco and after an exchange of words, some of which were
accompanied by me banging my head against the bathroom door crying “no, no, no”
in an overdramatic display of pained frustration, the present Mrs Hayward
kindly left the house once more, this time heading to Boots with a plea to
ignore the advice of mischievous pharmacists.
Another excruciating 15 minutes passed, as the spiky rock
from hell made a few more goes at ripping open my sphincter.
When my wife returned I flung open the door of the bathroom
with excitement. She handed me the box and said, rather nervously, “Do you need
any help with that?”
I must have looked a little confused, albeit not as confused
as when I was presented with the prune juice, and politely refused this kind
offer. Our marriage vows were broad in nature but didn’t, in my view, stretch
to the application of suppositories. Especially as there was enough stretching
going on without a third party intervention.
In retrospect I realise that this may have been why she’d
been reluctant to purchase the desired items in the first place, and was
relieved with the pharmacist’s recommendation, if she’d thought that she would
have to be actively involved in the endeavour, however this was never on the
cards.
As it was, I’ve never had to use a suppository before, and certainly
never expected to blog about it, but when in dire need they are fairly amazing.
Up they go with little effort and very soon relief was on its way. The rock melted
away and my posterior had been saved from having stitches.
I left the bathroom in jubilant fashion. I’d been trapped
there for 90 minutes by this point so it felt like I’d been released from
prison. The present Mrs Hayward was less impressed and really couldn’t
understand what all the fuss had been about.
As it was, I never needed any more suppositories or medicine;
everything started to function just fine. As for the prune juice, I gave it a
go. It was, unsurprisingly, fairly disgusting. Mind you, I’m regular as
clockwork now.
Normal service has been resumed.
