Those We Don't Speak Of by Rachel E. Bledsoe
A week after giving birth to my first and only child, I was basking in new motherhood. Actually, I was limping and whining due to the small train that had barreled through my va-jay-jay. My poor precious flower had lost all her petals. The pain of child birth still remained present. The unimaginable back labor pains were still dancing in my head, not nearly as sweet as sugar plums.
Two days in the hospital and our little family was sent home. The instructions were only to use the spray bottle every time I went to potty. Everyone was forgetting the other hole. The poor lonely asshole always gets the shit end of the stick.
The asshole was done being ignored. After a week of not being used, it was going to make itself known. It would no longer be the #2 in command. The vagina had robbed the asshole of its former glory. Previously, it had been the only hole to squeeze out large objects. Over the course of ten long laborious hours, everyone who entered the delivery room swooned over the vagina. They wanted to touch the miraculous vagina. Then the vagina did something the asshole could never do; it delivered a life form. A living, breathing, and crying creature; everyone called it “baby.”
The asshole first rebelled with a jealous nature. It would not participate in the squeezing out of anything. It would not function for over an entire week.
The pains grew intense and on a Sunday evening, I kept trying to redeem the asshole. I pushed as much as my torn vagina would allow, I wanted to poop. I had already delivered my first real baby. My body strained, and I tried every sideways maneuver to drop some kids off in the porcelain pool. Nothing happened. Botched up, bloody, raw, and desperate for one good healthy shit is an intense craving.
Monday brought about a pain. It wasn’t located in the region where the magic happened. Instead this pain was a shooting comet in my pinky starfish hole. Similar to labor, all I could do was cry and cuss. Then I sat in a hot tub of water, finally feeling the pain subside. Until my pain in the ass husband walked in and stated, “You can’t sleep in the bathtub.”
There went my relief swirling down the drain, standing up I sobbed and hobbled down the hallway. There should be an exception to the no sleeping in the bathtub rule. The pain which I can only describe as Wolverine fisting your anus with claws out should be that exception. I had to find out what was causing my misery. Bravely, I grabbed the handheld mirror and went into detection mode. Maybe labor had permanently ruined my baby making delivery parts.
There I saw “Those We Don’t Speak Of.” I saw the monster sized golf balls hanging from a jealous unused a-hole. In the pink hand held mirror, I discovered how bad hemorrhoids could actually be. These aliens had attached themselves and nothing was going to come through them.
It took three surgeries to remove “Those We Don’t Speak Of.” Within an hour of the first two surgeries, “Those We Don’t Speak Of” came back. They reared their ugly heads time and time again. I returned to the E.R. after the first surgery and sat on my side in the waiting room crying in front of strangers.
I lasted three days with Stage 4 Thrombosed Hemorrhoids. The final surgeon only had to see them for two minutes before admitting me into hospital. He said they were the worst he had seen in four years. This statement did not provide any comfort. Finally, relief came the next day when the surgeon performed a Hemorrhoidectomy. It sounded like a made-up medical term, but it wasn’t. And two weeks later as I could barely sit, I was able to hug the surgeon who had stopped the pain.
If you think you might go into labor, remember two things:
Stockpile your body full of fiber.
Never take hole number two for granted.
It may not be able to give birth, but it’s a part of your day to day functions. Remember, your second hole has been your lifelong main squeeze.
Rachel E. Bledsoe-Rachel is an Appalachian mayhem loving Misfit Mama who works at a local newspaper during the day. At night, she stays up late and writes her blog, The Misfits of a Mountain Mama. She enjoys long walks on the beach, puppies, Marie Antoinette biographies, and babies (only the one she birthed.) She is the Mama to the Terrific Toddler who is rambunctious, rowdy, and can bite other kids within a blink of an eye. Be sure to follow all the antics and chaos by visiting The Misfits of a Mountain Mama’s Facebook page or join her on Twitter @MisfitMtMama.