h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

B*gger me, what a way to start my 2nd half century

Well, not quite yet, but near enough.

Frankly, I'm scared rigid. Not because I'm hitting 50 - though that in itself is a bit of a biggie. Not because for some reasen that one day I'll no doubt justify I've somehow gone along with the students at the Hairdressing college rescuing my hair dye failiure - though it looked effing superbe when it was done, two shades of auburn and a blonde streak, by turning the whole lot a sort of Sharon Osborne Red.

Apparently I have non porous hair; which is in one way great, because its strong and smooth and "good" hair. In another it's a tad of a nuisence - it also means that my hair won't accept dye -unless the colour is bleached out, the hair quality down graded and then re coloured.

Anyway, I'm Sharon Osborne Red and thats an end to it. I didn't set out to write about the colour of my hair.

I set out to write about my fears.

Yes... I'm 50 this week(ish) I've a party that very few are coming to, not because I don't know people, but the people I know have lives, and their own dramas and loads of them can't come. Hopefully the few that are coming will bring friends, or we'll abscond people from off the street to join in, because I want to rock, not celebrate reservedly and politely.

As I type this, I'm hearing The Stones, Led Zep, Deep Purple, Dr Feelgood blaring out the speakers; a mix that Wendy downloaded for me, in one of her brief visits to reality. She's finding life without her husband very complicated, very hard. She's either suicidal _ I spent Monday Night over at hers, with her sleeping tablets under my pillow, "just incase" - or up in the clouds; she hasn't found a balance yet from her grief.

I know how she feels - it took me the best part of 2 years to find the will to live after Smirnoff and I split, and frankly, even nearly 4 years on, I can safely say there isn't a day I don't wish I could be with him. The fact that he doesn't think of me as anything other than an understanding ex lover and all round Good Egg, who copes wonderfully, and all the rest of it is neither here nor there. I want, and he doesn't. I'll respect the decision, I'll not pester. But the feeling is still there.

So I know how Wendy might feel. Life has some lumps that are just very very difficult to want to chew. Some are just plain indigestable. And some could be solved, if only I had closure; an explanation, an acknowledgment. for all I know, he feels the same and lacks the courage to speak out. But he's scared or indifferent, or oblivious, and I won't give him pressure.

Ah well. I digress.

Whats new?

No, whats really worrying me is this forthcoming examination I have up in Whitechapel It involves a hell of a lot of tests, all involving my backside; I've finally had to face the absolute horror (to me) of rectal examinations, to findout whats obstructing the lower bowel, and causing me severe problems "generally"

Which is odd, because I can flash my female bits around to any medico you care to name,discuss vaginal problems, hormonal problems, etc etc without so much as a blush. Well, not from my side, anyway. I've made a few doctors blush with my forthrightness and general lack of embarrassment though

Its the down pipe I've hassles with. The thought of being medically examined "there" makes me heave. Not because I'm embarrassed about crapping, or any prissy ideas. (Show me anyone who doesn't use the downpipe for evacuation, and I'll introduce you to someone full of sh*te)

It's because I've got to lie on my left side *WITH MY BACK TO THEM* to be examined; I can't see what they're doing. I can't control my environment.

No big deal, till you learn I was anally raped years ago - by a long ago partner, who I trusted implicity, up until then. It bloody hurt, I was in pain, I bled for days afterwards, and I couldn't face pressing charges, nor getting checked up medically. Its about the only time I ever hid from a situation, as well. And I've hidden from it quite well for about 25 years; but I can't continue to pretend the end results, if you'll pardon the pun , don't affect the quality of my life.

Whatever damage was done is interfering with the basic simple stuff in life like digesting food and eliminating it, and I can't adapt much more than I have done, out of habit for very much longer. It's time to face the final horror, and frankly I'm dreading it. If I was under sedation, then yeah, I could cope. I don't have to know whats been done, merely wince and make a joke, ask for pain relief and put on a brave front.

This time I simply don't have that luxury

I am also weary of not being able to trust any partner totally since. God knows, I wanted to trust Smirnoff, I really tried hard; I could cope with the "normal" rapes, (I've had more councelling for child sexual abuse and adult traumas than you really would want to know about. Honestly.) and was getting over them with his help and understanding. But he ran off thru some totally unrelated thing *he couldn't cope with, and I haven't really had the heart, or the desire to even try to learn to trust anyone much really.

In one way, it's bearable. No intimacy, no danger, no fear.

In the other, it's unbearable. No closeness, no desire, no feeling.

I must admit, when I read of what's referred to between hetrosexual couples as "botty fun" here, I've physically heaved; but I reckon whatever floats your boat is OK for you - just please, don't expect me to join in; and that's fair enough I reckon. Homosexual activities don't worry me atall. It's an informed choiice, it makes them happy, an frankly, since thats 50% of the orifices availiable, then I can't see a problem. Blunt, possibly simplistic but hopefully acceptable.

But no matter how I try to be impartial or detatched or reasonable, no matter how much I tell myself it's all in the past, it was a one off, they're trained professional medical bods, etcetera etcetera and once they've had a clamber around with their horrible robotic instruments to measure muscular tone, structure and state, it's pretty unlikely I'll ever have to go thru another diagonstic again.

Beause I know from previous (abortive manual) examinations it hurts like hell - not because I can''t force myself to physically relax and breath deeply, but because whatever it it that's causing me the grief (bunched up scar tissue?) is so sodding painful that I yell as soon as they get within "looking distance" And believe you me, I'm pretty tough, with a pain threshold that's high enough not to ask for even gas thru out childbirth - and that's pretty tough.

And what's even worse is that I have to adopt a passive feotal position. I don't have the comfort of being able to defend myself/hit out/run.

I have to face being totally defenceless a day after I hit 50. It'll just be for about half an hour. No time really. Not in the scheme of things generally.

The two facts are totally unrelated.

I can face the latter, and I have Wendy to come with me to the hospital there and back for the former. No doubt there will be retail therapy and a lot of distraction on the day too. After all, its only half an hour or so and with a bit of luck they'll be able to fix the down pipe without recourse to anything complicated. Eventually. The oporation and recovery period will be ...erm... challenging and slightly musical hall in its connatations (A bum deal ho ho ho) but I've coped with worse. More or less.

I don't fear some dire diagnosis. It's damage that needs repairing as far as I'm concerned, not a disease I need to worry about. And if its a disease, then I can learn about it, and come to terms and fight it.

But by gawd, I fear my own unresolved reactions enough to discuss them at long last, firstly privately with close friends, (and that took some doing, believe me) and finally in this entry.

I'd welcome sensible feedback, if anyone wants to offer it- but until I've got the hang of it, no jokes please? Not right now, anyway.


And no ever so "there there there" - I don't want platitudes thanks, I shall growl and probably regret it later.

A hug is lovely, but it's no practical use. But feel free to hug. I probably need a hug if I'm honest.

I need someone to offer me a different sense of proportion, or a coherant idea to work with. I'm tired of being told I can cope, and I'll be alright. Even superhumans have their vulnerabilities, and although some see me as bloody superwoman, I've never been stupid enough to believe I look good with my bra and knickers over my vest and tights.

I probably will be alright, when push comes to shove, It doesn't alter the fact that right now I don't know how to be.

And now the big question I've been putting off.

Do I post this?

Well,you did post it !!!
People don't discuss their fears enough,i don't know why,but maybe you'll encourage others to do so
And that can only be good!!
I don' know smirnoff,but your almost fifty(i did say ALMOST),best foot forward Ev,and look to the future,none of us can bring back the past love.
Now ,have a ,or even a ,hope that'll help,just a bit!!!

I can empathise with how you feel about many of the things mentioned. Having a friend that at times wants to die, still wanting to be with someone who doesn't feel that way back anymore, having had things done to you by someone you trusted and not telling anyone for years.

Unlike you I spent my 25th at my mum's, I dodn't have friends to spend it with.

I can't offer you a different sense of proportion. I don't think you'll need one when comes down to it. There's something you have to do. You don't exactly want to. It scares you. But you're just gonna do it all the same because it has to be done.

Gosh. Your very ... brave ... to ahve posted that... though thats not the right word/word I was looking for... I'm pretty open on most things but I don't think I'd ahve hit the post button... and I'm too pissed now to respond properly...

Thanks each - I think you, Az are about right. It's something I don't want to do, but am going to do/have done anyway.

I'm more afraid of showing how... distressing (exactly the right word chosen I'm going to find it all. I feel more vulnerable expressing my vulnerabilities and having them witnessed than I ever do by putting on a brave front. I lost the knack of it some time ago, which isn't a Good Thing. I'm tough because I've learned to be, not because its in my nature. I'm a pretty senstive plant and I can empathise with 90% of people; it always amazes me that very few others seem to have that ability. So few people see the cracks and crazing I have (which in one way is a good thing) I've learnt to yell for help silently, which is no use to me atall.

No one can hear me. And if they can't hear, then how can they respond?



So this, I suppose is a practice run, of sorts. I think it's called "De sensitizing" And its also about learning to trust myself I guess.

Hi Evadne,

I too can empathise with you, but in a way in reverse (no pun intended). Many years ago when I was young and shy I had some rectal bleeding. went to GP who said " bend over", parted my bum cheeks and said "Mmmm.I'm sure it is nothing but I'll refer you. What I didn't expect, even though living in a garrison town, was an army hospital with an abrupt army Dr. I'll spare you the rest but it wasn't so much painful as a shock because I expected a 'looking' session first. I felt I had been abused and arrived home in a literal state of shock.

Over it now, and writing it seems it was almost funny, except it wasn't.

The way I look at things is that you have 2 choices. You either do something about your problem , or you don't. If the first choice gives a chance of relief then go for it. You have already climbed 98% of the mountain, just a few minutes and you will reach the summit.

And that is another mental trick. If I have to do something that I really don't want to do, Mother in Laws Birthday Party eg, I just say "in an hour or two it will be over" and whats is that in 66 years. Nowt really.

Hug from me

Novo

It took a lot of courage to post that Ev. It brought back how I felt as a young woman having my first internal (for pregnancy) and fighting the prissy old doctor doing the deed. I nearly kicked him in the face!

It felt such an almighty intrusion then though it doesn't bother me now. Perhaps in the long run it will help you gain confidence once it is over and it probably won't be as bad as you think.

Line up a for afterwards, or whatever you can have. I hope the results and treatment, if any, are worth the aggro.

Take care, and whether you want them or not!

Keep us posted.

Websailor

Well -


it's done, it's over and I'm impressed with myself because I went on my own in the end; couldn't afford Wendy's fare up to town as well as mine, and I certainly wouldn't expect her to pay for herself.

Started off at 9.00; got the coach to Victoria Coach Station, and then the district line to Whitechapel. Even i couldn't miss the hospital (which is a pity, because I was rather hoping I might not be able to find it until too late)- it's on the other side of the main road to the Tube exit.

Obviously I'd got there too early, and I didn't expect much to entertain me in Whitechapel

Hoo boy, was *I* wrong

There's a cracking market there, apparently daily; it has all sorts of foods I've ever seen, and instead of yer usual "M&S Seconds" type clothing stalls, there's saris, and pashinas and all sorts of wonderfully coloured stuff - vivid oranges, and pinks and greens and whathaveyous, so I had a good mooch around, and discovered what Sharon Fruit and ArrPears looked like, and dallied with the idea of getting a proper sari and some bangles and things.

I only dallied with the idea, aturally. The purse is very light until after rent day, alas.

Eventually I couldn't put it off any longer, crossed the road, and found the right department; checked in.

The receptionist really got on my nadgers straight away. I overheard her saying to another woman, who was having the same tests done as me words to the effect that although the procedures arn't too bad "Its very embarrassing"

"Really? I piped up "Who for, exactly? I'd have thought the Doctors and nurses have seen enough backsides not to be fazed by it"

"Oh... the patients find it embarrassing" she fluted

(I'm going to give you a right ding around the ear'ole I thought to myself; can't you *see this other women is even more nervious than I am?)

"Frankly, I wouldn't make the assumptions that everyone would be as embarrassed as perhaps you would be" I remarked. "Armpit or anus, they're all bits of the body, and all equally important. And unless you want them to be, all totally unembarrassing"

She wasn't too impressed by that, but the other woman obviously felt a bit better about things, because she confided in me that she couldn't read or write very well, and would I mind helping her fill in her questionnaire. "Instead of 'er over there"

Which I did. It helped me not to sit there gibbering, and the nurse called me down to the examining room just as we'd finished.

Lower clothes off, and a bit of an interview with the Consultant, once I'd put on one of those air cooled gowns you have to don.

He was a nice bloke; youngish, very professional, made it seem all perfectly normal.


Trouble was... he had a very strong Glaswegian Accent, and I kept expecting him to go into a Billy Connelly monologue; for some reason possibly best left unexplored, the one about his prostate examinination

ANYWAY... up on the couch, assume the position (knees up to my chin - hah! Some hope! and toes pointed straight down, rather than trying to tuck them into my backside cheeks so he can't Do the Deed.

First the manual poke around. Not atall pleasant, and I damn near threw up,to begin with but once I'd breathed deeply, and he'd got past the sore bit it wasn't too bad. Not something I'd have chosen to do on a Wednesday afternoon, but those are the breaks.

Next he inserted something best described as a balloon into me (Oh god, I hope it's not a silly colour I thought to myself) and pumped air into it, to simulate the sort of pressure you get when you need to evacuate.

Now that felt just plain weird. Not particually painful, but decidedly unique.

After that, when the balloon was decently disposed of (and I never did ask what colour it was; there are some things you just don't want to know) he cheerfully informed me he was going to insert a small tube into me so I could squinch hard around it, so he could tell if the muscles inside were functioning OK.

It was all getting a bit surreal by then.

It got extremely surreal when he announced "Righteo, now; we're just going to put some elctrodes into you to test the nerve functions"



Excuse me?


EXCUSE ME???


You're going to do what???? Over my dead body are you coming near me with a cattle prod matey.


It took a fair bit of explanation and persuasion, but I was assured that it really wouldn't hurt, and perhaps electrodes weren't quite the best way of broaching the subject perhaps, and if you'd just like to come down from that lamp shade Mrs Cake, perhaps we could start again. Its no good hiding, we can see you hiding anyway.

A better way of defining it is ... imagine the knee jerk reflex you get when you have one of those little hammers donk your legs - it's a bit like that, only obviously a mallet wouldn't fit in

(well, not unless you were very unique, I suppose),

so what they do is put a tiny (albit elctronic) *equivalent of a medical mallet into the backside, and when you can feel the pulse of it, that gives them an idea of how well the muscle tone's doing.

One side of me is average, but the side that's scarred and had been damaged is less toned, apparently. Which is no surprise.

Next we had the camera to take an ultrasound scan and lots of 3 d pictures. That felt a bit scratchy but not too invasive. And, I might add, I didn't feel much like smiling for the camera. Not after having electrodes reaching places I didn't know existed, frankly.



And finally, the piece de resistance. It's called "Evacuation Proctography", and I'd strongly advise that You Do Not Try This At Home.

Imagine a whacking great icing syringe. Narrow tube, but one hell of a big container.

Next, envisage a thick viscous mixture of porridge oats (yes, really) saline and barium paste. This is articial poo.


You can guess the rest, can't you?


I'm lying there... on my side... clinging onto the wall and thinking "Any minute now that bloke is going to ram that tube up my backside and fill me full of porridge

Oh-Mi-Gawd, I can't believe anyone would choose to want to do this for a living. I can't believe this is happening;

good lord, that feels absolutely bizarre.

Next, clutching what few tatters of dignity I felt I had left, (together with the air cooled gown) I had to lurch over to the Commode.... WAIT until they'd got everything lined up camera/xray wise and then was given permission to evacuate this bizarre mixture of gubbins.

Its true they can't see you, but thats small comfort when you know your more intimate functions are being monitored via technology and the blasted consultant calls over to you "Push a bit more Mrs Cake you're not empty yet"



It sort of ruins any mystery you might hope you still had, I can tell you. In vain did I look for a stone to crawl under, but stones were there none.

I shrugged mentally and did as I was asked. After all, what else could I do?



I was frightened of the potentiality of the pain rather than the indignity of it all, but I'd primed them of my dubious history and they explained pretty well (on the whole) and were patient and humane about the whole thing. I did my best to work with them and on the whole it went alright. I found if I detatched myself and tried to observe impartially rather than going down the "I don;t think I can do this" route most of the time I felt reasenably in control. At least of myself.

So that dear reader (if anyone's still left) was my afternoon.

They've already got a shrewd inkle of what the problem is, it's quite common, and operable should the consultant who asked for these tests to be done choose to operate.

I have every intention of persuading him to do so since the problem is now ruling my life rather than me ruling it.

So it's back to the waiting game and the chasing up if I haven't heard anything within say, 6 weeks.


And yes; I can safely say I won't be looking at porridge in quite the same way for a very very long time.

Awww Sounds as if you managed a lot better than you thought you would, though even to me, and I'm a kinda medially trained chap and used to many procedures over the years, doens't necessarily sound the most plesant medical set of procedures ones might wnat to... endure but at leat its done and out of the way I'll leave it to Roymondo to come along and make the smutty jokes BTW?: I've still not recovered from the weekend in Hern bay/Margate

Cheers Leglets - I must admit I did a lot better than I ever thought I would do, but I think a lot of that was down to some of the conversation you Roy and I had around the bottom third of that bottle of Jack Daniels, if I'm honest.

For which thank you both The pair of you helped put quite a lot of things in perspective for me.

I had this naive belief/hope that I'd covered most of the smutty joke angles, but it was the consultant's accent that got to me the most - it's hard to take things too seriously when you're expecting him to break into pure Billy Connolly comments...and then he doesn't. The fact that he didn't made me want to giggle, apart from when I wasn't climbing out of lampshades, etc etc.


Oh... and if it makes you feel any better - I'm still not quite the full shilling after the party either

Good, I'm glad your party was suitably executed.

I vaguely* remember the bottom third of the bottle of JD... I think I'm sure I vaguely remember a coffee at some point... not sure when that was though I still really need to catch up on a bit of lost sleep, the Roymondo and I popping over for a 'couple of pints' with Liftliker, and the consequent turning of the 'couple of pints' into an all afternoon and evenign affair with aftershock teikila and beer and apple sours, didn't help much either Strange... asides still being tired I have a pain in my left arm and my left leg yet Roymondo was the one that fell over on the way back from the pub in Margate/westgage Glad we helped..... we coudl have easily made matters worse sod it... I'm going to have another beer

*has little recollection of the supportive conversation but was glad to be of help*

We need more Thanet meets. So far they (both) have a 100% superb rating.

Both?* was the other the beer festavil I managed to miss through Must do another.... this time I'll make sure I've not got any work on on the Monday I just* managed to get myself out of the trubble on that one

>>We need more Thanet meets. So far they (both) have a 100% superb rating<<

The one you organised but didn't come to was pretty good, as well Roy

As usual you have written an entertaining piece about something not very pleasant, but I hope it really was 'not a bad as you thought'. Whatever, and for coping with it brilliantly.

Having read that I shall think of you every time I see Billy Connolly! How on earth did you not laugh

Take care and be sure to let us know how things progress.

Websailor

I'll let you into a little secret Webbie

I heard that consultant's accent and all I could think of was Connelly's voice coming out with his unique sense of humour; yes, it was ghastly in one way. In another, it was too ridiculous to take seriously.

Can you imagine any young lad deciding one day "I know! What I want to do is look up terrified people's ar*eholes for a living. That's what I want to do!"

No.

Nor can I. But this guy did, and fair play to him, because if he didn't decide to want to do that, I wouldn't have a diagnosis.

I'm no hero worshipper, but when you consider The Big Yin could use his (possibly humiliating) Prostate exam. as material for the best monologue I've ever heard for real life angst, pure absurdity and paralell thought - I mean, really wince makingly life observations that made me crease with both laughter and empathy, I found the key to making the whole thing almost bearable. Half of me wanted to die with humiliation and absolute terror - and the other half detatchedly ran a commentary (in Sarf Easr London patois) of what was going on. ( Jee-sus Cerist - what a joker life is)

I was lucky enough to see Billy Connelly in October 1975, just before he was famous, in his "Big Banana Feet" Tour - the day the very First Love of my life told me he was getting married to someone else, sorry and all that.

The bit of me who sat with the guy wanted to cry; the bit of me that lived howled with laughter at the clown performing infront of me. To me, laughter and tears are very very closely entwined. They were at 17, and in truth, with the exception of Smirnoff's defection, that 17 year old is with me most of the time.

Although why I hanker after Smirnoff is a complete mystery; he has the empathy of a 2 year old, bless him. About as much help to me as a tit on a bull. He means well though.

How on earth did I not laugh?

I failed miserably. I admit it. I chuckled a lot to myself and cracked observations the Big Yin would have approved of, perhaps. The nurse present was creasing up; *she knew where I was coming from. Mr Consultant... I regret to say, nice as he was, knowledgeable as he was, was still too far up his own backside to appreciate the humour!

Do you reckon, if I edited the resume a bit I could get the description this procedure into EG? If so, HOW exactly? PR isn't exactly renowned for its sense of humour as such. Too fussed about grammer and accuracy and too bloody PC IMO.

I think they forget it's a "guide" a lot of the time.

Or would it be too flippant? Perhaps we should be terribly serious about it all instead?

Though I can't, for the life of me understand why. Before - yes. It's unknown and therefore very scary. Afterwards? Since its a guide, why not make it entertaining, if its humanely possible? Why re iterate that stupid receptionist's opinion and make people feel bad about themselves?

Its not the best way of spending an afternoon - but in honesty, once the manual clambering around was out of the way(as Novo remarked re his childhood examination, and as you did, re the internal for childbirth, it does feel terribly invasive the first time - especially if the person concerned is po faced and without humanity) the rest of the tests were so grotesque and frankly ludicrous (albeit obviously necessary) I fail to see how any person with a sense of survival could not to see the ridiculous side of things and capitalise on it.

If only for their own sense of self preservation.

Its operable; it's curable; and once i've bludgeoned the local consultant to operate, I may - just maybe - feel less tired, less exhausted. less sick and able to do what I want to do; be fit to work for more than a couple of days at a time. Not full time, but never theless.... some of the time. Regularly.

A cack back I can deal with - it's not curable and I can accept that. The chronic exhaustion, the intermittant feeling like death warmed up. That was fixable. With the symptoms I've presented, over the years in theory, it should have been sussable. Whether I'd have have admitted to That Assault or not.

Infact, I was told the rape, although nasty wasn't a contributory factor. It was giving birth that caused it. And should have been sorted 20 - odd years ago.

I could waste a lot of time being angry about all the "Could haves" and no doubt I *will rant about it all.

To be honest, I'd sooner look to the now and the future rather than waste energy on the past. It's gone; I've managed pretty well, I've brought up two fine lads despite feeling ill and exhausted. I'm still just about solvent, and I'm a young 50 rather than a knackered embittered one.

Just think how I'll be once I've recovered from the op!

On the whole, it's pretty hopeful