Bleed Out — NDE #5

March, 2006, Kansas City. I was home after the surgery that had gone so well. Well, not so well. I was about 20 pounds underweight and weak as a — as a cat? At least a cat can shit on its own. I was the opening verse to “Consoler of the Lonely,” but it wasn’t the ear that had a constant buzzing in it.

It was my ass.

Something did not feel right *down there*. It hurt somewhat even if I was just lying around, but when the wife and I would go out to get my “senior citizen walking the mall”-type exercise, well then it got sexy. How can I put this delicately? It felt like there was a golf ball-sized cheese grater in my rectum, one that danced with every step. Stand up, it hurts. Lean on something for support, it hurts. Sit down? Not on your life.

The mystery was solved (sort of) one night when I was in the shower.* I was rinsing away, barely able to keep my head up, when it felt as though I was about to pass gas — not something you do when you have a colostomy bag. I relaxed the sphincter and found myself pushing out something solid. I reached around and pulled on a rubbery, well, rubber — that’s what it seemed like, anyway.

Of course it wasn’t a condom, it was a condom-sized piece of my own flesh being rejected by my body — with bits of surgical wire and maybe 20, 30 surgical staples to boot. I freaked out (can’t imagine why) and got on the toilet, which I proceeded to fill with maybe half a pint of dark, purple, not-meant-to-see-the-light-of-day blood.

That didn’t do a whole lot for my energy level — I went to bed and almost died passed out. (A nurse who heard the story recently was surprised to hear I hadn’t lost consciousness.) Later I called the surgeon’s office where his nurse told me the doctor “was fine with it.” Whew! That was my top priority, the emotional status of the sadist that carved up my rectum and left some heavy metal behind.

I did have an appointment with him a few days later. I brought the condomy staples joint, which had been residing in a Ziploc bag in the freezer. I asked him what this was all about. He told me the staples were supposed to come out naturally once the wound healed over — strangely enough, he hadn’t mentioned that before the surgery. Hmm. Then, showing foresight that I lacked, he pointed to the Ziploc bag.

“Can we throw that away now?”

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*The ladies demanded it.
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