March 21st, 2017
I sat at the stop sign preparing to make my turn onto Main Street when I felt a dull aching pain coming from the seat of my pants. It was a cross between a muscle ache in my lower back and a feeling of constipation. Having struggled off and on with chronic back pain since I was a teenager, I assumed it was a flare up and started my hour-long commute to work. By the time I had reached the office I was achy all over and I could tell I was running a fever. Unable to make it past noon I drove home. More accurately, I drove to my parent’s house, where I demanded they nurse me back to health by feeding me homemade chicken noodle soup and Tylenol. Naturally, they obliged, and by the next morning my fever had broken but I was still achy and exhausted. The quite literal pain in my ass was persistent but at this point blended in with the aches from what I had presumed to be the flu. By the day after, the sickness appeared to have left my body but the pain in my nether regions continued and became increasingly worse. That evening, I stood in my bathroom with my lower half contorted over a hand mirror trying to catch a glimpse of the source of pain and becoming embarrassingly aware of how inflexible I was. I could feel a knot located just next to my, well, for lack of a better description, my asshole. I could not, however, see anything that stood out. I quickly called my mom. (God bless the pressure we put on moms to be everything we need them to be, including doctors.) “Mom,” I said trying to stay calm despite knowing she could sense the panic in my voice, “there is something wrong with me…I’m not sure what it is…it’s like a knot…it’s near…um…well…um…well…it’s near my asshole.” There was a moment of silence over the phone that I was not sure how to interpret before she sensibly replied, “Well, I bet it’s an abscess. Call the doctor.” My mom defused my anxiety with just the confident tone of her voice, and I made a plan to call the clinic the next day.
The next morning the pain increased to such heights that going to the bathroom was not only uncomfortable but a chore. I called my Nurse Practitioner’s office hoping to get an appointment that day. The receptionist answered the phone in the sweet and perky voice I had heard so many times before, “Good morning, Clay County Medical Clinic, how can I help you?”
“Um, hi, um, this is Jessica Perry and I need to make an appointment with my Nurse Practitioner today.”
“Okay, tell me about your symptoms,” replied the receptionist.
In the midst of my agony, I realized I had forgotten to rehearse my speech ahead of time, something my anxiety has trained me to do before making any phone call, and I wasn’t quite sure how to explain this one. It’s okay, I attempted to assure myself, she works in a doctor’s office, I’m sure she has heard it all. I explained in a nervous but matter of fact tone, “Um, well, I have this pain, it’s a pain in…well…it’s a pain in my ass…its right next to my asshole.” Just like with my mom, there was a moment of silence that I wasn’t quite sure how to interpret. I mean, I suppose it is the kind of news people need a moment to process. We both kept our composure, continued through the rest of the logistics and scheduled an appointment for that day.
Hyped up on Tylenol, I confidently made my way into the doctor’s office where I was instructed to take off all my clothes on my lower half and was handed a sheet with which to cover myself. The minutes in the doctor’s office between the time the nurse takes your blood pressure and when the doctor comes in are some of the worst moments for my anxiety. It’s during that time frame I imagine every possible worst-case scenario that could happen. It’s the moments when my mind conjures up images of me receiving the call asking me to come to the office because bad news is never delivered over the phone. It’s the moments when I picture the doctor telling me I have a terminal illness and their voice slowly fading out to silence as I sit staring numbly off into the distance just like people do in the movies.
Unsure how to sit comfortably, I chose to lean against the counter with the sheet draped around my waist as if I just got interrupted getting dressed for a toga party because some alien creature tried to make its way out of my body, took a wrong turn, and is now stuck at a dead end. My Nurse Practitioner waltzed through the door with her typical reassuring smile and asked what was wrong with me. Making scary things matter of fact is something I’ve learned to do in order to remain calm. So, in a very matter of fact tone, I replied, “Well…I have a bump…it’s on my ass…it’s near my asshole…like right next to it.” Completely unfazed, she asked me to lean over the table. I can’t imagine looking directly into someone’s asshole is how she imagined spending her day, but I also guess that as a family health physician the possibility is never zero. And despite knowing she will have a difficult time finding it from that direction, I do as she says. She starts at the top of my crack and works her way down before reaching my lady bits. “Oops,” I say, “you’ve gone too far.”
Unable to find what she is looking for she then asks me to lie on the table so she can put me in the stirrups. Every woman knows the stirrups are the last place she wants to be on any given day, but I obliged, and I scoot my bottom down to the end of the table…just a little bit further…yep, perfect. Again, she starts at the top and works her way down, feeling out every nook and cranny of my hoo-ha. What she is searching for I have no idea, but I have always appreciated her attention to detail and need to be thorough. I laid still and wondered how in the world she can’t find the abscess which feels like the size of a doorknob by now. I picture that somehow my asshole has decided to do some remodeling downstairs and while I would have preferred a classy and elegant looking pocket door, my asshole has insisted on something more rustic and overly ornate. How does she not see it?!? Finally, she tells me to take my finger and point to the area that hurts. I did as she requested, spreading my butt cheeks wide apart and pointing to the hard lump.
“Oh,” she says. The inflection in her voice stirs panic in mine.
“What is it?!? Is it cancer?!? Am I going to die?!?” But my rapid-fire questions seemed to only make her calmer.
“It’s an abscess. It’s pretty deep. That is why I couldn’t see it at first. I’m going to give you an antibiotic and if it doesn’t go away then I’d like you to go to the ER.”
“What will the ER do to it?” I hurriedly inquired, almost cutting her off.
“They may drain it but let’s start with the antibiotic first.”
Naturally, my anxiety still wasn’t at ease, and I immediately hit her with a lighting round of questions about abscesses. Never have I ever had a physician understand my anxiety quite like her and knowing I needed her to take the time to listen was important to me, she did just that. God, I wish more physicians were like her.
That afternoon I went to my parents’ house to crash on the couch. I found myself in yet another quiet moment where my anxiety started to run wild like a fifth-grade boy drunk on caffeine and sugar at a sleepover: completely impulsive and unpredictable. I hate those silent moments when I am alone, and no one is there to tell me that I’m being irrational. In those moments you only have yourself and you never tell yourself that you are being irrational because if you did then you couldn’t be anxious anymore and that makes you even more anxious because you can’t imagine a life without it. Immediately my head was slammed with every worst fear I have ever had. Is this it? Is this how I die? Is it a lump near my asshole that takes me out? Thank God they don’t put the cause of death in obituaries anymore like they did in the old days. Mine would read, “Jessica Perry, devoted daughter, sister, aunt, and friend died on March 24th due to an inoperable knot on her asshole that doctors are calling ‘one of a kind.’” I hit my mom with a flurry of texts to tell her about how this was the worst pain I had ever felt. Like. Ever. I asked her, “Is this where the saying comes from about someone being a pain in the ass? Because I have a literal pain in my ass. This is completely ridiculous. What if I have cancer? Can you get ass cancer? Is that a thing?”
Immediately my mom called me, and I heard her very distinct laugh on the other end of the phone. “Jessica, you are killing me!?!”
“I’m killing you?” I questioned her, “I’m the one dying! I’m dying of ass cancer and all you can do is laugh. Listen, I’ve been thinking about this, and I want you to promise me that if I die of ass cancer you will you make everyone wear hats shaped like an ass to my funeral…except for the relatives who won’t think it’s funny at all so they can just wear hats shaped like donkey heads.” I forced her to agree to my terms and conditions, but she continued to assure me I wasn’t going to die of ass cancer. How could she be so confident of this?
By the next morning, the pain had worsened to the point I could barely walk and certainly could no longer sit. My diet had consisted of basically liquids only because having a bowel movement was simply not an option at that point. By that afternoon, I was at the ER. The pain was so unbearable that I knew the only fix at this point was to have it drained. That made me a little nauseous, somewhat nervous and a hell of a lot embarrassed. I mean, who gets an abscess near their asshole? This had to be the single most ludicrous reason to be sick.
We arrived at the Emergency Room and I checked myself in. I had to wait as there were several people in front of me because apparently a broken arm is more urgent than a burning, painful lump near your asshole. I was finally admitted to a room and explained my circumstances to the ER nurse and eventually the doctor. The doctor, a tall, middle-aged man with a warm smile, kind demeaner, and a voice that sounded like a Muppet greeted me.
“You have an abscess.” He said, “Let’s take a look at it, go ahead and bend over the table.”
“Um, well,” I stuttered, “you may have to approach it from the North side,” I quipped as my mom rolled her eyes from across the room.
“Alright,” the doctor said sort of hesitantly, “Let’s take you into this room over here so you can lay down and I can get a better look and try to drain it.”
“Have you ever done this before?” my anxiety inquired of the ER doctor.
“Oh, once or twice,” he shot back at me, “but never on my own.” I smiled.
“Touché,” I responded as we made our way into the room down the hall. His humor put me at ease. That’s the benefit of being an anxious person with a good sense of humor. I laid down on the table and my mom asked me if I wanted her to leave. “No, I want you to stand right here” and I motioned to the empty space near my head, “and maybe keep your eyes up here too.” I untangled the sheet out from around me, spread my butt cheeks yet again, and pointed to the spot that by this time I was convinced had grown even larger.
“Oh,” responded the doctor.
Why does everyone keep saying that?
The doctor spoke quietly yet assertively, the way he was probably trained to speak when delivering bad news. With each sentence he spoke, he took a brief pause that seemed more for my benefit than for his so that I could process what he was saying.
“That’s a little far outside of the scope of an ER doctor.”
“Okay…”
“Given its location you’ll need surgery and a skilled surgeon to drain it.”
“Okay…”
“We’ll have to admit you tonight.”
The last statement immediately sent me into a panic and the tears began to flow uncontrollably. It’s all a big joke until you have to actually have surgery.
My sister arrived shortly after to sit with me so my mom could go home and pack an overnight bag. The nurse started an IV and injected a pain med that for the first time in days had given me some much needed relief. I was able to walk normally down to my room to be admitted. My sister stood vigil next to my bed and eventually my younger brother arrived. In my drug induced state we began to cope with our emotions the best way my family knows how to: inappropriate jokes.
“How big is it? I bet its ass-tronomical!
“You always were a pain in my ass”
“Sounds like you really got your ass handed to you.”
“Do you need some Ass-prin for your pain?”
“Stop making me the butt of your jokes,” I exclaimed, this is the dumbest reason in the world to get sick and be in the hospital. I’m going to tell everyone I was in a car accident!”
“Tell them you got rear ended!” My sister shot back. We laughed and then high-fived.
The surgery wasn’t until the next evening, and I was on a strict clear liquid diet and would be until it was safe for me to have a solid bowel movement again. Green jell-o, chicken broth, tea and water were served up morning, noon, and night. The night before the surgery was bad. It had been determined my body was fighting off a nasty infection and I was being pumped full of antibiotics. But it was the emotion attached to the sudden uncertainty that got the best of me. After my family cleared out and it was just me and my mom, my vulnerability crept out.
“I’m scared,” I cried, “What if I really do die,” I sobbed.
“You won’t,” my mom reassured me, “You are going to be just fine.” I don’t know if my mom was really certain or if she just spoke confidently, but her words put me at peace. Just like they always did.
The next evening, I was taken into surgery where a drain tube had been inserted into the area where the abscess was. An incision was made centimeters from my asshole and a soft, flexible rubber tube called a Penrose drain was inserted. I awoke in the recovery room and although I immediately felt relief from the pain that had plagued me, I knew something wasn’t right. I struggled to breathe properly, and I could tell my fever was spiking. Before I could even explain my problem, I started throwing up over the side of the bed into a bucket the nurse was holding next to me. "I think I’m peeing,” I said, embarrassingly, through dry heaves. “Don’t worry about that, we’ll get you cleaned up,” the nurse quietly assured me.
As it turns out, I wasn’t peeing as I had thought. It was actually pus and blood being discharged through the drain tube and mass quantities of it shot out with every uncontrollable cough. I was cleaned up and returned to my room but the rattling in my lungs continued to worsen. My fever made a steady climb to 103 degrees. The nurses moved quickly, stripping me down to the bare essentials of clothing. Ice packs were placed on my pressure points and cold wash clothes were placed on my head while I was offered popsicle after popsicle. The nurses continued to work rapidly and consistently at breaking my fever. I lay in bed, shivering, my lips turning blue, and my skin turned as white as the sheet I begged them to let me cover up with. My family stood, silently, watching over me. No one spoke. That is how you know something is bad in my family. The jokes stop because the heaviness in the air tells you that making a joke would be too inappropriate even for us. It was scary.
Eventually it was late enough that everyone dispersed. My mom returned home. I was in the local hospital, and she was only a few blocks away. It made more sense for her to sleep at home instead of on the uncomfortable standard issued visitor chair. I tried to get some rest despite my fever continuing to hold at a steady 103 for several hours. I finally talked one nurse into giving me an actual blanket and I eventually drifted off to sleep.
I awoke early the next morning around 5:00 AM; my sheets drenched with sweat and fluids from my drain tube. My fever had finally broken in the middle of the night, but I now had a new issue to deal with. A sharp pain shot through my stomach with a loud rumble. Nearly a week of a liquid diet and antibiotics had finally caught up with me and it was all about to force itself out of my body one way or another. I did a quick assessment of the tubes attached to me and found the outlet on the wall that connected to my IV tree. My stomach began to rumble again, this time as if to say, “This is your final warning, lady!” I jumped out of bed, unplugged the IV tree, and turned to sprint toward the bathroom, but there was no stopping it. I squeezed my butt cheeks together and in an impulsive and desperate attempt to stop the flow, I used my hand to cover my butt. If there was ever a low moment in my life, it would be the moment I tried to catch my own diarrhea in my hand. Who in their right mind thinks it’s a good idea to try to catch such things? Apparently, me. I’m sure there is a metaphor for life in there somewhere. I waddled as quickly as I could to the bathroom but by the time I reached the toilet, there was nothing left but a perfectly placed trail that could retrace my every movement from one side of the room to the other. There I was, 34 years old, covered in shit and tears with a drain tube in my ass crack spewing out pus and fluid, sitting on the toilet, helpless and crying. It was a literal shit show.
I hit the emergency button in the bathroom to which the voice of a tired and annoyed nurse responded, asking me what I needed. I explained I had an accident and needed some help getting cleaned up. Within moments, the door opened, and I heard the voice of Kylie, the sweet CNA, who if I had to guess was barely 20 and I’m sure would have rather ended her shift doing anything but this.
“Oh,” I heard her say from across the room. (There is so much power in that little word.)
“I’ve had an accident,” I sobbed, “and I need some help.”
Without missing a beat, she rushed to my side and began cleaning me up. There were simply not enough apologies in the world for me to give her.
“It’s okay,” she assured me, “I’ve seen much worse. This isn’t even anything to be bothered by.” I figured she was lying but it did make me feel better.
“I don’t even know how you do this. I could never do this.” I said quietly as she assisted me into my new gown and called sanitation services to clean my room.
“I just really like helping people,” she said quietly and assertively like it was absurd to assume any of this was an inconvenience for her. Never in my life had I admired someone so much younger than myself as I did at that moment with her.
After the chaotic morning, I was relieved to get some rest and get to the bottom of my breathing and fever issue. After some bloodwork and x-rays it was determined I had pneumonia. With two infections in my body, I spent seven days in the hospital. I was discharged with the instructions that the tube would continue to drain and would eventually fall out on its own.
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January 17th, 2023
It’s been five years, nine months, and twenty-seven days. Shortly after discharge from the hospital, my abscess turned into a fistula. A fistula is a tunnel that runs through tissue and muscle, and it occurs when the infection from an abscess has nowhere to go. It basically finds its own way out through any means necessary and if left untreated, it can re-abscess and lead to much larger problems. Mine was small but can be debilitating during a flair up and it has taken a toll on my mental health. It is also a condition that is notorious for being extremely difficult to treat. It cannot heal on its own and is only fixable, if it even is fixable, by surgery. In those five years, nine months, and twenty-seven days, I saw five doctors, across three states and had eleven surgeries/procedures to repair the fistula and determine the root cause. In the end, it took nearly eight months after the final surgery for me to heal entirely and the cause of the fistula was determined to be none other than good old fashioned bad luck. I spent five years, nine months, and twenty-seven days exhausted, terrified, and suffering mostly in silence before I could call myself fistula free. It’s not exactly an experience one talks about daily despite playing a major role in their life, especially when one appears to be functioning well. No one really wants to hear about your butt problems. Within the last few years, I’ve started to be more public about it. I never offered up the information but if someone asked, I shared as much as I felt comfortable with in the moment. Some knew everything, some knew various parts but nearly everyone was empathetic, and some shared their own personal experiences with similar situations. I am always pleasantly surprised and comforted when someone shares about their own butt problems. I love to hear the stories. It’s embarrassing to talk about. But should it be? Our bodies are not perfect. They get damaged and sometimes in very disgusting ways. What if we just decided we were going to normalize talking about all the worst parts of our bodies that no one ever sees? Imagine a world where someone suffering from a doorknob sized abscess near their asshole could discuss such things with as much ease as talking about the weather. Somewhere in the history of the world we, as a society, decided those things were inappropriate, shameful, and a burden to others. We’ve been keeping them to ourselves, forcing us to believe this very false narrative that we are alone. And we all know the feeling of being alone is in the top five worst feelings, sandwiched somewhere between grief and claustrophobia. So, I say, tell your story proudly. You never know who may feel less alone by hearing about your asshole.
About the photo: You’ll shoot your eye out! The Christmas Story house is located in Clevland, OH. This is the house used for the exterior and some interior shots of the film. It is absolutely worth the $18 to tour the house and the museum. On the inside it looks just like the movie and even has a replica leg lamp you can hold. The gift shop is lovely too!
