Nothing “Butt” Trouble

I’d prided myself on never having seen this particular doctor before. You know the one I mean. Yes, I’m talking proctologist. With the numerous surgeries I had under my belt one would think I’d be short on dignity, but it’s amazing how desperately you’ll try to find a shred of it while perched on your knees, your dress over your head, and your backside facing the North Star.


If you’ve never encountered the proctologist’s office, you’re in for a treat. And when the nurse instructs you to remove your underwear, and assume “the position” don’t take it upon yourself to place the paper sheet with the large circle cutout over your head. This is not where it belongs.
“Relax,” commanded the doctor as I lay head first, in a jack-knifed position upon his “mechanical-bull inspired” exam table.
Relax? Who was he kidding? And I thought childbirth was humiliating. Don’t ask me why, but at that moment I became overly concerned with my lipstick and began noisily rummaging through my purse while he scrutinized my defenseless derrière. Not that he could see if it matched my dress from his viewpoint, but first impressions are important so I continued. You haven’t lived until you’ve applied lipstick, at eye level, in the reflection of a stainless steel trashcan. A clear case of “temporary” vanity.
“Ah ha!” proclaimed the doctor as if he’d discovered penicillin startling me, my lipstick taking a wrong turn across my cheek.
For the record hanging upside down is never a good time to realize your doctor has found “the problem” and surgery is inevitable.
“The Latin term for the procedure translates ‘to blow the roof off the tunnel’,” he continued much too seriously with his mumbo-jumbo medical jargon.
“The tunnel? Like in a cave? Are you going to wear a miner’s hat?” I teased.
He was not amused. Hmm. If he was going to blow the roof off my tunnel, he was at least going to see where he was going. I’d see to that.
On surgery day, the nurses cracked up when I arrived holding the yellow miner’s hat with attached headlight. I nervously prayed the doctor possessed a sense of humor which had so far eluded me. You’d think a man who did what he did for a living would have one. Once prepped, a snickering nurse placed the hat upon my head while I waited. When the doctor appeared the nurses couldn’t contain themselves, but his expression was blank. Oops. Maybe I went too far. Suddenly to my surprise he exploded with laughter, switched the hall lights off, clicked my headlight on, and personally pushed my gurney to the O.R. as my entourage of howling nurses followed. Just remember nothing ensures a “fun time” at the hospital like the ideal prop.

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About Mellie Justad

A transplanted Southerner trying to survive in South Florida or what I fondly refer to as,"The Land of the Southern Impaired" I write about everyday life from my days as my hometown's Possum Queen to being cut from my wet suit with the Jaws of Life with a pair of hedge clippers. My humorous essays have appeared in the anthology, Not Your Mother's Book on Being a Mom, Midlife Boulevard, The Storyteller, ParentingPlus, Dew on the Kudzu and Muscadine Lines. Remember when you find yourself at the end of your rope- don't despair and crochet your own noose- Just add humor.
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