It all started with a doctor’s appointment.
I wanted a face-to-face appointment to get my ear checked out. My ear goes numb every once in a while and fills up with fluid. I wanted to know if it was infectious. I don’t want to go deaf. I quite like my hearing — how the fuck would I eavesdrop? All gossip is normally conducted in hush tones — what if I miss something?
Missing what my husband is grumbling about? I’m in. I want selective hearing — I just don’t want to go deaf. Clarifying that for the universe — manifesting purposes.
Last time I wanted time off work, I fell down the stairs and nearly fractured my ankle. That’s not what I meant. I meant a holiday or a weekend when everyone else fucked off out of the house.
I also once manifested becoming a strong, career-driven woman — and now I’m fucking that too! FFS.
New manifestation: create a community of storytelling, and see more people like me on TV. In comedies. Based on experiences I’ve seen in my community. Was that clear enough, manifestation? Not crime watch!
So this trip to the doctor for an earache turned into a colonoscopy. I am as surprised as you.
After finding my Bupa membership number (3 days), arranging the appointment (2 days), and waiting for the actual procedure (another 3 days), I had absolutely no time to prepare the area.
I hadn’t waxed or trimmed in 11 weeks. I wanted to, but for 3 weeks the hot weather stopped me. My local beautician wouldn’t wax in case skin came off. She told me it was 42 degrees in her beauty room, no AC. Fair enough.
So now, I was a full-on poodle puff down there. From the front, it looked like the back of a show poodle — thick, fluffy hair at the top tapering down my thighs like sculpted legs, narrowing all the way to the ankles. And the arsehole side didn’t look too pleasant either — I checked.
I squatted over a 10x magnifying mirror. Not for the faint-hearted. It takes a while for your eyes to adjust. It’s something you can’t un-see.
If I ever date again, I’m making sure they need glasses. I mean, I want servicing — I just don’t want to keep up the maintenance.
I’m not really one for preparation, especially not for doctor’s appointments. I don’t read up, I don’t get a kick out of playing Dr Google. Mainly because I’m lazy. I prefer someone just tells me and then I can ask questions.
I did prepare myself in the colon capacity. I had to fast — that was hard. I avoided people all day in case they were eating. Actually, that part was nice. I drank miso tea and bone broth in bed while watching Dying for Sex (which is excellent).
However, drinking 2 litres of laxatives plays games with your bodily functions. I spent most of my time playing piss or shit. Both had the consistency and colour of water. I was too scared to fart — I had to ensure I was always hovering over a toilet.
I got to the hospital and had a quick nervous wee. Maybe a shit too — at this point, who knew? My inability to prepare met my anxiety head-on.
I put on my hootchie shorts with a bum flap exposing my hairy arse. Took a picture and sent it to my best friend. (Just to clarify: the hootchie shorts were mandated hospital attire. In my next life, they’ll be a wardrobe staple.)
The doctor came in and explained that whatever happened during the procedure, I probably wouldn’t die. I was relieved. He asked if I had any fillings. I panicked. I whispered in a small voice, “I thought it went through the anus?” They explained it was just in case I needed suction. I nodded dumbly and lay on my side in a fetal position. Suction what?
As the nurse administered fentanyl into my arm, I suddenly remembered: I had a tampon in.
“I have a tampon in! Shall I pull it out?” I blurted out, just as the drugs kicked in.
We’d already had the drugs/no drugs discussion. The nurse, in his Filipino accent, said, “Do you want this? I know you want this. It is so good,” flicking the syringe.
God, I wanted it. He seemed so enthused. I nervously joked, “It’s the main reason I came.” Then panicked they might think I was a drug addict.
Then the fentanyl kicked in and I shut my mouth. I pretended I was a worm, travelling through my bowel, following the scope on the big screen in front of me.
I have no idea what the doctor said about what he saw. I was in Fentanyl World, wondering:
If someone stuck a dick in my mouth right now, would Bonnie Blue see me as competition?
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