by KUBOA
Maggie heard of a behaviour-change concept that happens when you snap an elastic band against your wrist. The sting creates a mental diversion, one that forces your brain away from say, the influence of addiction, the fear of dying, the inner scream of self-harm: the theory is that any behaviour followed by a punishment will occur less often. I asked Maggie if she thought this would help when I have eight fingers shoved up my rectum later that day, and to this she replied, “The technique is supposed to distract your thoughts, so it might help take your mind off the pain. But really, I think the only person who could answer that is a ventriloquist’s dummy. Did you sign the papers yet?”
It happens if you get dehydrated. A lack of exercise or not taking enough fibre in your diet causes it too. It happens when your wife moves out and all that’s left in the refrigerator is minute steak and twenty two cans of Stella.
I snap the ecstatic band, once. Grit my teeth.
The doctor says, “Fissures, Mr Roberts, are very common in all ages, and are more often than not sighted within the interspincteric groove.”
He looks up from my arsehole momentarily to say, “The anal canal.”
I look back and nod once. That is pretty much all I can do, save for observing him scoop out a large clump of clear jelly from an industrial sized plastic container. I realign my focus back to the blood pressure monitor on his desk and hear him say, “The skin within the canal is called the anoderm, and unlike normal skin it has no hairs or sebaceous glands. It does however contain a large number of somatic sensory nerves, which unfortunately for you, registers light touch and pain. The anaesthetic will help.”
The noise coming from my wrist is Morse code.
A few weeks back: I turned in from a thirteen hour shift driving shitheels and lowlifes to and from the suburban hell-rot of my hometown and my boss smelt whisky on my breath. There was a pair of pink lace knickers draped over the back seat of his cab, which wouldn’t have been a big deal had I not had my zipper undone. I knew then, this was going to take more than flowers to win Maggie over.
The doctor says, “Back in 1838, Recamier prescribed the most effective cure for fissures being anal dilation. How’s that?”
I assume he means the pressure he is applying, and not my understanding of Recamier’s theory. I manage to squeeze a few words of reassurance through gritted teeth.
“Good. Now where was I? Ah yes, Recamier. The technique has undergone various changes over the years, but the principle remains. Two physicians called William Alexander and A R Crapp…”
I muster up the will to ask him to repeat the last name.
“Crapp? Yes, quite an unfortunate name considering his particular area of expertise. Well, both he and Alexander support Recamier’s technique, and believe it to be the procedure of choice for anal dilation. I’m going to insert the second finger now, Mr Roberts.”
The morning after sharing a quart of Wild turkey with the blonde who couldn’t afford her fare, the same who blew me for the tip and let me cum on her knickers, Maggie was getting up for work. We passed each other on the stairs, as we do most mornings. There I handed her the P45 issued by my boss, and one week later, on those same stairs, she handed me the divorce papers.
The doctor says, “Most physicians do not condone more than six fingers, as it is believed four is quite adequate to reduce internal sphincteric pressure. I’m personally of the opinion lateral subcutaneous internal sphincterotomy is just as affective, if not better. But I can fully understand your reservations with rectal surgery.”
You don’t need your marriage to break down to get constipated, but it helps. In the first few days I was too drunk to realise I hadn’t passed anything other than fifty gallons of lager. You don’t take in bowel movements when you’re riding out the storm – least that’s the theory. While tears bled from each eye making the world permanently blurry and askew, I’d commit to the empty spaces of the room words of reassurance, telling myself I was at my lowest ebb and nothing more could go wrong. Then I needed to take a shit.
I’ve never been able to empathise with the adult movie actresses paid to sit on a 14-inch cock, but I did that day.
As the doctor inserts his third finger, I pull real hard on the elastic band and it snaps. The skin beneath is reddened into a perfect kabbalah bracelet. My worst thought at this point isn’t toward the possibility of incontinence later in life due to having my arsehole stretched wider than a doughnut; it’s that people on the street may think I am part of the cult.
That’s when he says, “Mr Roberts; you do know you’ve got a piece of twine in your rectum?”
I look behind to see the old man’s forehead, a series of pleats stacked on top of each other indicating mistrust.
“In all my years,” he says shaking his head.
When a rectal surgeon who specialises in faecal incontinence, rectal cancer and inflammatory bowel disease says this, you have to give it your full attention.
I try looking, to catch a glimpse of the twine, if indeed it exists at all. But I can’t see anything other than a pair of plastic forceps heading beak first between my arse cheeks.
I ask him if they’re necessary.
“These?” he asks. “Don’t worry about these. They’ll just assist me in clamping open the anus. I think our main concern at this moment is how twine has found its way through your colon. Unless of course it did not go through the colon?”
You tell yourself you’re at your lowest ebb and nothing more can go wrong, but you forget there’s Hell below ground zero.
This rectal surgeon, one referred by my general practitioner after I came to him about blood-streaked toilet paper, now thinks I’m into some kinky shit. I am not. All I want is the bleeding to stop, and the pain.
I try reassuring him that it was probably my wife who placed it up there, an act of retribution like prawns being sewn into the hem of curtains, or writing your mobile phone number next to the sex cards found in a phone box. I do this for two reasons. The first is to convince the old man I am straight. The second is to add good reason to how the thread ended up there. Maggie finding out her husband has been getting free blow jobs from punters is certain to cause some ill feeling.
He says, “Maybe I should pull it?”
“In your professional opinion,” I say, “do you think that’s wise?”
He replies, “I should imagine most of the twine has been eroded by gastric acid. I am sure it’s only a fraction of its original length. Your poor diet, and the slow contraction of the colon’s muscles, could have contributed to the fact most of the twine has not fully been digested.”
“But what are the possible complications, if the twine is of considerable length?”
With mouth obscured by the cleavage of each of my arse cheeks, he says, “Worst case scenario is your lower intestine is pulled out with it. The upshot to this is all conventional toilet visits will be negated because we will have to provide you with a colostomy bag.” He winks. “But I am sure nothing so drastic will occur. Unless of course we find on the opposite end a kite, or playful kitten.”
He laughs a little to himself and what follows is the sharp-eye-watering thrust as the forceps replace his fingers.
A marriage can never break down. Not in the same way a car, or television, can break down. It takes one, possibly both parties, to sabotage a relationship, be that consciously or otherwise. My contribution was to have an affair. Maggie’s was to cut herself, and sleep fourteen hours a day.
The woman who became the catalyst to our break-up was a regular pick up. Every morning, as my shift was ending, I drove down Broughton Road to a small cul-de-sac and waited outside a semi-detached red brick house. 6.30am every morning she would leave that house and fill the cab with expensive perfume and polite conversation. She worked in the city, conveyancing, for a well to do charted solici
ting firm. She had amazing eyes, dark like coffee beans. She dressed smart, mostly two-piece office suits, blazer and short skirt. She liked me because I was always punctual and knew the side streets that avoided all the early morning traffic. An arrangement was made between us, which meant no other driver could attain her business. I would be hers, and no one else. There wasn’t much more to it than that, save for a few pleasantries regarding the weather, or shy comment pertaining to what was on the radio at the time. But it doesn’t take long before the surface of civility is slowly scratched away. What lay beneath for us both was simple loneliness, even though we were both linked to other people.
The doctor says, “I imagine the lidocaine will stop you from experiencing too much discomfort, Mr Roberts. The twine is slim, so if anything, the sensation will be more pleasurable than uncomfortable.”
I am staring towards the blood pressure monitor again, knowing the old bastard is smirking at my alleged self-styled perversion. No doubt he believes my arse has been home in the past to many objects, most likely a chain of beads, love eggs, or an Action Man doll. I don’t believe anything I say will convince him otherwise.
“If you do feel any sharp pain in the lower abdomen, please let me know. Okay, here goes.”
Numbed by lidocaine, I feel only a slight resistance, one that arrives when the doc sucks air through his teeth. Each time this happens, he asks, “Comfortable?”
Bent over a desk, arsehole clamped open with forceps while an old man with very questionable breath pulls out an immeasurable length of twine from your colon, you imagine a hundred more suitable terms than, comfortable.
To take my mind away from the incident, just as the elastic band was supposed to, he says to me, “It occurs to me I never finished telling you more of Alexander and Crapp’s studies and development of anal dilation.”
I ask him to repeat the last name, as it sounds quite an unfortunate surname for a coloproctologist.
He says, “Yes. Crapp. I must concur, like I did moments earlier, it is an ill-fated family name. Comfortable?”
“How many fingers are you up to?” I ask.
“None. Though that’s not to say the current dilation enforced by the forceps don’t, at the very least, mimic a good three, possibly four.”
I feel a slight jolt within my colon and hear the doctor say, “I think I have retrieved enough twine to begin constructing a patchwork quilt.”
I’m inclined, considering the nature of my entrustment, if he knows that forceps were never discussed, and more importantly, what function twine has on the healing process.
I look back and the old man peers, suspiciously, from the valley of my rear. He then says, “Twine has no business within the interspincteric groove, nor does it have any relevance to your healing, Mr Roberts.”
“What’s an interspincteric groove?”
“The anal canal, Mr Roberts. Were you not paying attention before?”
I shake my head, and a swell of humiliating pain radiates from my lower abdomen.
“Is it normal for the fingers of a person to administer such a high level of discomfort, even when the area the fingers are invading is numbed by an anaesthetic?”
“I have no fingers currently in the rectal region, Mr Roberts. What you’re feeling are the forceps.”
“Forceps were never discussed,” I say.
“They were called in when we discovered the twine.”
I am none the wiser.
“Mr Roberts, you do remember the twine residing in your colon?”
I shake my head and ask, “In your professional opinion, do you believe the twine to be the cause of my anal fissure?”
He says, “Do you often find it difficult retaining information, Mr Roberts?”
The old man’s tone is harder than the stool that provoked this whole ordeal. I tell him there is nothing wrong with my memory, but I am bringing into question his conduct and discrimination towards patients with rectal discomfort.
He intoned, “I can assure you, Mr Roberts, my behaviour is always professional. Obviously the trauma of the procedure is causing you some distress. But I will confess, my comment regarding the kite and kitten was a little inappropriate.”
I’m either the victim of a malicious prank set up by Maggie, or the old man is senile. Either way, I ask the doc if he would kindly remove the forceps.
“After much deliberation, I have decided to allow nature and a course of stool softeners help assist the healing process.”
“But Mr Roberts, I can assure you…”
“Please,” I say. “Would you really wish to have this incident recalled in a medical tribunal, and your good name dragged through the mud?”
I ask him again to the remove the forceps and after a few seconds the distant, but much welcomed, tension of my rectal muscles clamp shut. As I pull up my trousers and secure the belt, I hear the snap of elastic as the doctor removes his gloves.
“I could not retrieve all the twine, Mr Roberts, as it does appear much longer than first envisaged. I have, however, removed as much as time permitted, and placed it in this small plastic container.”
He hands me a small receptacle, most commonly used for urine samples.
“It may be prudent to seek further medical advice, should, after passing your next stool, the twine is still evident.”
“Sure,” I say. “Whatever.” I then place the container in my coat pocket and leave.
