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How I survived the most embarrassing doctor’s appointment of my life

“Right, it’s probably best that I DO just have a look. If you just take your pants off and just lie in the foetal position for me. I’ll just get the gloves…”

‘Just’, I thought, as I stood there in my GP’s office a few weeks ago. THERE IS NO ‘JUST’ ABOUT THIS.

*record scratch. freeze frame.* Yep, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation, etc. Let’s rewind.

I’d had an itchy bum for a few weeks. I don’t just mean a shaving itch, or sweaty crack itch. I mean super-uncomfortable-can’t-sit-down-do-i-have-crabs-oh-god-I-think-I-actually-have-crabs kind of itch.

“I think I have bum cancer,” I announced.

“Wh… uh… why?” My long-suffering boyfriend asked on a cold, crisp, itchy winter’s morning.

“I think I’ve got a lump on it, I just felt it in the shower and obviously it’s bum cancer, so.”

“Are you wiping properly?”

WAS I WIPING PROPERLY? How rude. Yes. Front to back, thank you. I AM VERY THOROUGH.

I left it. I went with the very British ‘let’s see how it is in a few weeks’ tactic before doing anything about this… thing. Weeks went by. Some days I couldn’t feel it all but on the days I could feel it, I could REALLY FEEL IT. I caved. I rang my mum, she obviously told me to go to the doctor, and my nan in the background shouted, “GET SOME ANUSOL CREAM!”

They were down the high street. My nan was shouting about bum cream down the high street.

I bought this magic cream and tried it out for a few more weeks. You should have seen me, guys. Leg up on the chair, bent over, jabbing this cream on my bumhole. Beautiful. Utterly beautiful.

I couldn’t tell if it was working or not… so I did it. I booked an appointment with my GP.

The problem with seeing my GP is that the surgery is up a hill. Potential for sweat. Also, typically, obviously, my train was late, so I had to run up this hill. ALSO, typically, obviously, I hadn’t had a poo all day. WHAT IF SHE HAS TO PUT HER FINGER UP MY SWEATY BUM AND MY BUM GETS… CONFUSED???

It wasn’t going well. But I just kept thinking to myself:

1. You can’t make looking at a bumhole nice anyway. It’s a bumhole.

2. She’s probably looked at old man bumholes.

3. This is her job. She is just doing her job.

4. At least I can write about it.

I walked into my GP’s office with my head held high and bum clenched in anticipation. I felt like it already had the spotlight on it. People in the waiting room knew there was something wrong with my bum. It was glowing like a baboon’s. At least, that’s what it felt like.

But I faked confidence and just got on with telling my GP what was up. If I acted bold and frank then it would be funny, right? I can control how this goes. It doesn’t have to be excruciatingly embarrassing and awkward. PEOPLE GET BUM PROBLEMS, SO WHAT?!

And… it worked. It was fine. We laughed. My GP was totally chill, obviously, and said it was probably a little hemorrhoid caused by straining (whoops) and not drinking enough water (also whoops). Basically, I probably had piles.

I always imagined piles to be like a handful of umbilical cord sticking out your arse. Like a monkey’s bum. You know what I mean, right? Monkey bums are weird.

Anyway, I digress. Piles are not like that.

My GP put me at ease as I did as I was told and got my bum out in the foetal position. She put her glasses on, pinged her plastic glove, and had a prod around before announcing she was going to slip a finger up there to check for internal hemorrhoids. I took some deep breaths, desperately tried to relax my bum muscles, and thought about what I was having for dinner that night.

Then it was done.

Bish bash bosh.

It was either a tiny hemorrhoid or a skin tag, I should keep using the cream, not strain, and drink more water.

DONE. It was as easy as that. The worst part was the overthinking beforehand, as per usual. But always remember that your GP really is there to help you with anything, this is their job, they’re trained, they CHOSE THIS, they’ll always have seen worse. Like old man bums.

I walked out that GP office’s like John Bender in The Breakfast Club (see below). I was master of my own bum destiny. I felt great.


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