I'm skipping forward a little from the meeting Micko scenario to about a year later when we were happily living together in Suffolk Park (about 5 minutes south of Byron). Initially I moved into the flat he was living in which was basically a make shift garage or shed. It had a bench with a sink in it (the kitchen) which was part of the room with the TV and couch (the living area) and an area cordoned off with a sheet and some wooden beads was a bed (the boudoir). Thankfully, the guy who owned the garage had recently put a bathroom in so Micko no longer had to run into his house to shit or shower... This was such a blessing because the dude was a total weirdo and although we had some really great times in this little pad, I was never fully at ease. The guy had this weird vibe and I always felt like he was 'watching' me. Not to mention I am a human shitting machine and I'd probably end up spending more time in the dudes place than my own!
So, I won't go into the long version, I'll save that for another day, but to cut a long story short I had a mate moving up from Melbourne with me and we all needed to find a pad together. Eventually we found this 3 bedroom townhouse across the road from the beach - rad, rad spot! Shame about the landlord - yet another blog is necessary (perhaps I should make a list). We moved in and things were going along relatively swimmingly.
At the time I was working at a radio station in Lismore (as you'd know if you read my first entry) and I was experiencing some bowel problems most likely related to stress - now that I look back. My bowels have always been linked very closely to my emotional state and sometimes not so much - just eating out a Bain Marie causes me to run holding my arse cheeks together to the nearest toilet post haste! In fact, when I was living and working in Melbourne a train trip each morning (shortly after my shit o'clock) left me sitting with my high heel dug firmly in my arse while my eyes would go watery and my hair stood on end - much to the amusement of my friends.
Back to the story at hand... It's not often that I suffer from any form of constipation - usually quite the opposite! Going from having a minimum of two craps a day to not a single skerrick, not even a rabbit poo, in almost 2 weeks was EXCRUTIATING!!! I spent the best part of that time crippled over in pain. I hate going to the Docs and I honestly thought I could just ride this out without a visit, but alas I was wrong. I reluctantly decided to book in an appointment with my really lovely doctor, Carole. Even more unfortunately, she wasn't going to be until the following week! I could not wait that long so I booked in with a guy, who Micko informed me shortly afterwards was an uber arsehole 'bigtime'. Too late... I had to go (quite literally).
Dr Uber Arsehole asks me a few rudimentary questions then requests I lie on the stretcher, pull down my pants, pull my knees to my chest while he lubes up this big plastic thing that looks like a gun and shoved it fair square up my clacker! Then he rips the thing out and tells me to sit up. He says, "Hmmmmm... Well there certainly is a blockage"... Uh, DURH! Followed closely by, in an ever so matter of fact way, "and what are you doing about those anal warts?"
My mind starts racing... Anal warts? What the fuck is this guy on about? I don't have anal warts... do I? Oh my god! When did I get them? What about Micko? Don’t anal warts cause you to become infertile? And so on and so on. Dr Uber Arsehole, writes out a prescription for an enema and some anal wart ointment and then books me in for some further STD checks. I head home horrified and in tears - what else have I got? How can I break this to Micko? What if I've passed something onto him? I headed to the pharmacy to pick up my arse supplies.
Micko was great... He said it didn't matter, that we'd treat it, he'd get tested and we'd deal with whatever was coming out way together. He seemed so relaxed about it all. Then he had to give me a couple of enemas! We'd been seeing each other only briefly at this point and here he is shoving stuff up my arse (not the fun kind of stuff either).
We both had to have the full gamut of tests done and this time round I was adamant that I'd see Carole. We both sat down and she told us Micko was all clear - what a relief! Then, to my surprise, she also told me that all I had was Chlamydia and it could be treated by taking 2 pills. I told her that Dr Uber Arsehole had told me I had anal warts and wrote out a prescription which I had filled... Also that it was super expensive and I hadn't touched it yet cause I was too embarrassed to let Micko gently dab each wart in my arse every day - morning and night! She rang the pharmacy and they said I could take it back and get a refund.
I was totally stoked, relieved, angry and feeling very sorry for myself all at once. So much so, my bowels kicked back in. I went home and spent some quality time with me, my Cottonelle poo tickets, a good book and I shat out the whole experience!
On the more serious side... Life eventually got back to normal - I still held onto a few residual feelings from Dr Uber Arseholes response. I'd really felt quite slutty, irresponsible and dirty due to his very cold dealing with me. I still can't understand how so many people who work in the medical system and can have so little rapport with people. It's like although they got the 'smart' gene, the 'empathic' gene passed them by! Needless to say, I've not visited Dr Uber Arsehole since and a trip to the Docs still leaves me running for the nearest loo.
the hard questions
2 years ago