A surgery happy dance, twerking style.

A surgery happy dance.  Twerking-style.

It’s weird to be happy about surgery.

Of course, I would prefer not to need surgery. I would prefer that my insides worked the way they’re suppose to.  I would prefer not to have had IBS for 40 years. But all my preferring doesn’t change reality. And the reality is that I need surgery and I’ll be glad to finally get it behind me.

When I say behind me, by the way, I mean it literally. It’s surgery on my behind.

OK, so now that you know the truth, feel free to stop reading if you’re a prude like me. I never thought I was a prude until this behind shit happened, but I guess I am because I hate talking about it.

If you’re leaving, I wish you well.  If you’re staying, here goes:

I have a rectocele. Yeah, I never heard of it either. Why can’t I have a simple-to-pronounce problem like a hernia, or something you’ve heard of before like hemorrhoids?

A rectocele, pronounced REK-toe-seel, is also called a posterior prolapse. It’s caused when the wall of the rectum bulges into the posterior (rear) wall of the vagina. Pronounced va-JAY-jay.

My parents and my sister know all about this. I long ago lost my prude-ininty with them. With my four brothers, I’m still skittish. I try not to get into the gory details.

But I have one brother who’s too curious for his own good. Recently I was telling him  about the pending surgery. I reluctantly used the word “rectum,” because you can’t really explain it otherwise. I said my rectum herniates outside of its wall. My brother, ever the engineer, wanted details. He asked,

“Now, does it herniate into the abdominal cavity?”

I paused.

“No,” I said.

Pause.

“It herniates into my vagina.”

Dead silence for a moment.

“And now that you have this information,” I continued,  “I’ll have to kill you.”

He laughed and said something funny about rectums and vaginas, and I heard my sister-in-law laughing in the background. They must be more mature than me because they didn’t seem embarrassed.

Getting back to the rectocele…

As you can imagine (or maybe not?), if your rectum bulges into your vagina, then anything coming out of your rectum isn’t exactly on the E-Z pass fast lane to the toilet. It takes a detour. In other words, stool gets trapped in the rectocele. And getting the stool to re-route back to the rectum can be an arduous process. For me, it can take hours and hours, often a full day. In the meantime, I’m so sick I feel like I’m being poisoned from within. And then it starts all over again the next day.

For some people, there are interventions that can speed up the process. But they don’t always work for me because I have other rectal roadblocks that get in the way. I’ll save those gory details for another story.

This altered traffic pattern in my rectum has gone on for almost five years. It’s a pain in the butt, which is why I’m happy about getting it fixed. The surgery will remove the bulging tissue and sew things up nice and tight again. Ouch in advance.

Now that you know the scoop on my poop, I promise I won’t threaten you with bodily harm.  It actually feels good to get it all out. If you are facing similar difficulties, you have my deepest sympathies. I hope by outing myself, you’ll know that you aren’t alone. That’s the whole point of writing about this.

Once my rectocele pave-over is behind me, I’m sure I’ll have more embarrassing and funny stories to tell. In the meantime, I’ll keep my shit together and wish the same for you.