My Imaginary Butt Cancer

I told this story to my sister the other day. She thought it amusing enough to share with her husband who in turn thought it amusing enough to make a running gag of it when they next visited. The story's not really that funny, but given that the sanctity of my butt has already been violated (yeah, I know how that sounds), I figured I might as well share (or over share) with the world.

Besides, bottoms really do carry an intrinsic humour (for some of us at least). Admittedly, my seven-year-old rolls her eyes at my bottom jokes. Perhaps I too will outgrow them one day. We can only hope...

A few months ago, with a mounting list of minor ailments and neglected health checks in tow, I dragged myself along to the doctor, simultaneously howling in protest while delivering a stern internal lecture on the importance of self-care.

The event that finally forced the visit had been the discovery of a hard tumour-like lump at the top of my butt-crack. When I first noticed it, I thought it was a pimple or a puss-filled ingrown hair (mmm...puss), but months later, when it was still there and, if anything, bigger, I began to entertain the notion that it might represent something more serious. I'm not fatalistic as a rule, but having practiced more than my share of self-destructive behaviour in the past, it seems only fair and logical that eventually, it should come back and bite me in the ass, so to speak.

My grandmother died horribly from bowel cancer when I was only a little older than DK, so I understand, better than most, the gravity of fatal affairs of the ass. Having said that, there was a perverse part of me that was delighted by the idea of my inevitable health crisis being a squamous cell carcinoma of the ass crack. I usually try to pretend that I don't know that perverse part, but it seldom works.

So I trooped along to the doctor with a written list of complaints, the exploration of which mostly involved cold, cold metal being inserted into various orifices. By the time we finally got to the ass cancer, the idea of flashing my butt really didn't seem that much of a big deal. The doctor poked about down there with a heavily latexed finger for a minute or two, then said, "Yes, it's quite big, isn't it?" I'm not entirely sure what she was referring to, but let's just say it was the tumour-like lump. "Mmmm", I agreed casually, although until that moment, I had thought it was quite small.

She finished her prodding, flicked her gloves into the biohazard bin and as I re-adjusted my clothing, explained rather anti-climactically that what I had there was a something-or-other cyst. Since it probably wasn't going to prove fatal, I didn't see the point in actually remembering the diagnosis.

She said something about the cyst forming around a hair and explained that they tend to arise in places where friction might be an issue. She used hand gestures to explain this and then indicated that my butt crack might be a place that sees a fair bit of friction, not to mention hair. I was too relieved to bother taking offense. "Yes, yes," I agreed enthusiastically, "friction and hair. Yes..."

The cyst might go away, it might stay or it might get infected and have to be surgically removed. And of course, until the other day, I hadn't told the story, because, well, a hairy ass cyst is just embarrassing, as opposed to butt cancer, which would have the definite makings of a funny story. Yes, sometimes even I wonder about myself.

You didn't seriously think I'd consider (for more than 10 or 15 minutes) posting a photo of my bare ass on the Internet, did you? Here's an unrelated photo of some plump, ripe, firm, barely blemished (but slightly hairy) fruit instead.