Wrecked 'Em, by Jasper

Despite having written half of a non-health related entry for the blog, I am naturally compelled to write another episode for my physiological phreak show. But, hell, if I can’t entertain the masses with anecdotes of asinine ailments that afflict me, what the hell good is a story about some 10 year old white trash kid that can’t do a jumping jack because all he does is sit on the couch, eat fish sticks and drink Mountain Dew.

As you may recall, I had a nasty virus that turned both major orifices in Mounts Vesuvius and St. Helen, and made me feel like I had been through a gauntlet of flea market shoppers trying to get the last bag of boiled peanuts. It was not a pleasant experience. By Saturday I was starting to feel human again. My bowels were actually getting on track and I was regaining my appetite (those two thoughts probably shouldn’t be in the same sentence). On Monday, I began to suspect something else was amiss. I felt a bit backed-up, yet I was having my daily constitutions. And, the mass of my deposits seemed lacking. Having had issues with an inflamed prostate previously, I suspected this could be the trouble.

Biding my time, hoping the condition would subside, I waited until today to call the doctor. Now, I wasn’t in pain or discomfort, but it’s a bit disconcerting knowing that something is wrong without those symptoms. I certainly don’t want to wake up finding my prostate is so swollen that its bulging out of my ass, and given family history, this is a serious organ to be concerned about. Prostate cancer does not generally induce laughter. Unfortunately, Dr. Ass Kicker did not have any appointments this week. Also, he was going to be out of the office for the next two weeks. I needn’t wait that long, so the nurse referred me to priority care. Perhaps you’ve been to an “urgent care” facility. If it’s anything like the one I go to, you ending of waiting 1 ½ to 2 hours sometimes, though not quite as bad as the ER. “Priority care” is a different animal. You actually get an appointment. Not only that, but today, within five minutes of paying, I saw the doctor!

So, in comes the doctor. This guy, Dr. Skeptical Indifference, got right to the point and began asking me about my problems. I relay all the information I have for him. Then he starts.

“Who told you’ve had a swollen prostate before?”
“Uh, the doctors that have examined me.”
“Hmmm. I’m skeptical.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m skeptical that someone your age has an enlarged prostate.”
“I’m 35. It first happened 8 or 9 years ago. I think my girlfriend at the time required sex everyday, so perhaps it was a bit overworked.”
“Oh. I see. And now?”
“Not so much. Perhaps it atrophying.”
“Yes, perhaps, but unlikely. You still have years before you to sow your oats. This usually only happens to men, married with children.”
“Well, I am married, with child.”
“Oh. I see. Well, drop your pants and let’s see the damage.”

I dropped my pants as instructed and lay down on my side. Like a thief in the night, Dr. Skeptical Indifference’s finger was in and out of my ass before I could blink. He proceeded to explain that he didn’t find my prostate to be swollen or even the presence of an irritated hemorrhoid. What he suspects is inflammation due to Mount Vesuvius erupting during my last illness. Again, he said he was skeptical that it could be anything remotely related to my prostate, especially since I don’t fit the age profile. He did refer me to an urologist, so that someone else can poke and prod me. I go next week. Hopefully, in the meantime, this condition will pass.