So this morning I manage to get an appointment with Dr. Henry. Because I love Dr. Henry, and because I can't entrust my ass with anyone else. Because I will wait three days with a blod-clotting bum just to see Dr. Henry.

I walk into the waiting room which, to my astonishment, is packed. And it's not just packed, it's packed with the elderly, old age pensioners of various sizes and shapes, all of them nicely dressed (the elderly in England are always well dressed, really. The older gentlemen are almost never without a tie and a sweater vest, and the women are always in a long skirt and with a nice brooch on the label of their lapel. With me in my chunky sweater, jeans and Skechers sneakers, I really felt I was letting them down, one of those young punks with no respect for civility or the desire to eat bacon fat spread on my toast in the morning). I was the youngest person there by at least two generations. The variety of ailments was amazing-one woman had what appeard to be her entire leg swathed in an ace bandage, and the others had any number of band-aids on various locations.

They talked about their injuries to each other. I read my book, deciding that even though I was hating the book it sure beat a ten year old Country Life and Garden magazine. I was hoping none of them asked me what was wrong with me as, if they had, I would've said something like impetago as opposed to any form of rectal bleeding element I've been experiencing.

Dr. Henry called me in shortly, and I walked into his new (and much larger) office. He smiled and shook my hand, and I sat down.

"OK, so I saw you about my hand herpes and-" I started.

"That's right!" he exclaimed, a big grin splitting his wide brown face. "How is the hand?" It comes out like: "How ees the chan?" but I will spare you from the entire conversation being written in the phoenetic as, well, it's a bit patronizing and anyway it'll do my head in. Just read his bits with a strong Spanish accent and it'll be just like you were there.

I showed him. "There's still remnants," I admonish.

"Where? I don't see it!" He retorts.

"You don't understand what it's like being a girl, do you?" I reply firmly.

"No. I know nothing," he counters, still grinning. "So what's the problem today?" And even though I said I wouldn't write in the phoenetic, I will on this one since I love it so-it comes out "What's the prollum?", and becomes the basis for the rest of my day.

"Dr. Henry, I have Ass Bleed. And not just that. I've had Ass Bleed for a while now and now it's morphing into Blood Clots." It's important that I am straight with him. "It got worse over the weekend-I'm at the point now where I am just leaking blood. I'm leaking. I don't even know where the faucet is to turn it off."

He is now serious, and we go over a list of questions relating to my health. He takes my blood pressure and my pulse, and then asks me if I've ever had investigations into my anterior.

I nod. "I was diagnosed with IBS years ago. I had a barium enema, and I got to drink the nasty shit, too. I've had a colonoscopy. And a sigmoidoscopy."

"Well my friend, you're going to have another colonoscopy and sigmoidoscopy," he says sincerely.

Oh good. Since my life isn't stressed out enough.

"And I need to do a rectal exam today. If you can take your clothes off and lie on the bed, wearing this sheet, I'll be right back with a chaperon," he announces, and goes to get the nurse chaperone.

Wait! Fuck! What? Wait! My bikini line is in bad shape. I don't want a rectal exam today. I am not emotionally prepared for a rectal exam. I hate people anywhere near my ass, I would've taken one of my tranquilizers had I known this was coming.

Dr. Henry comes back. I have undressed and am lying huddled in the sheet. I am so stressed that digits are going to be making their way up my rectum I am sweating like a maniac. So not only is Dr. Henry going to be exploring the intimate side of my nether regions, he gets to think I am a big sweaty hog while he does it, my adrenaline signalling to "throw more coal on! Max power! We have an incoming!".

He snaps on his gloves-I swear to god he actually snapped them on-and turns to the nurse. "Mrs. Adelaide has a prollum. She has severe rectal bleeding and needs a rectal exam."

I also need a house on the French Riviera, doc, but I don't see you delivering on that one.

"Do you have the lubricant?" Dr. Henry asks the nurse.

"Do we need lubricant?" the nurse asks him.

"WE NEED LUBRICANT!" I scream hysterically from the bed. "We need lubricant! For the love of God, my sphincter will slam shut on your finger! We need lubricant!"

Dr. Henry laughs and gets the lubricant. He spreads it on his finger. "The lubricant is cold, I'm afraid."

This is ok with me. I think the feeling of something warm going the wrong way up my fudge passage is likely going to be too much for me.

He comes up to me, shifts me on my side, has me raise a leg and with one smooth movement there is...yes...indeed there is a finger right up my ass. He has a good feel around-because, you know, a long crooked finger up your rectum is real comfortable-and then pulls his finger out of my ass.

He removes his glove. "That wasn't too bad, was it?" he asks.

"Oh no," I say, wiping my well-oiled bum off with some paper towels. "Just a typical date night, I guess."

I dress and sit back down.

"Well," Dr. Henry says, looking at me. "This is serious, Helen. There is a prollum. It is not related to the IBS. You do not have anal fissures, hemorrhoids, or any polyps."

Oh good. So the good easy three options have been removed from the list. This leaves the three bad ones-Crohn's Disease (which I know nothing about), diverticulitis (which I know nothing about), and colon cancer (which I pretend to know nothing about).

I am being rushed through the NHS system now with my sparkly private medical insurance to see a gastroenterologist. I have been told to eat no spicy foods and to take it easy, as he's worried that continued blood loss will start to impact me soon. He also said it's serious, this prollum of mine.

I tell him that I hate-beyond hate-sigmoidoscopies and colonoscopies. He tells me that in England, they knock you out. Oh-unless, that is, they decide to fill your colon with air to do the colonoscopy. Then you're awake. And I know in an instant that's the one that's going to be done with me, because that's how bad my luck is. I'll be given a colonoscopy with much gas and no sedation, since despite my protests it's my body's constant hidden desire to be a fart bag. And I will be so swollen I'll be led out of the exam room by Oompa Loompas to be juiced. And the doctor will be Patrick Dempsey-hot. And they'll be out of KY.

I go home to Angus and announce: I have a prollum. He is very worried.

Because it looks like I do have a prollum.

The surgery rang after I got home and let me know that Dr. Henry managed to rush me an appointment with a gastroenterologist. Looks like the fiber optics will be working their way up my anal passage this Friday at 6:30 pm.

And yes. I am dreading it.

-H.

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