Posts Tagged ‘violated’

On Violation -OR- My Taxidermist, My Gastroenterologist

October 9, 2008

The owl stared down at me, glassy eyed from its perch on the window sill, judging me, as the bespectacled and bearded man told me to drop my drawers and bend over his desk. “Mom,” I said, “Can you please leave the room?”

I disapprove.

I disapprove.

Perhaps this story requires some preface.

When I was 16 years old, I had a string of injuries and illnesses that sidelined my life until around the time I turned 18. In a six month period I had six surgeries, all completely unrelated. Though, this story only relates to one.

Sometime during sixth period newspaper, I discovered that I had several large, hard, lumps in my neck. If I lifted my head back, you could see them protruding. Of course, at the time, I only used them to freak people out and tap out complicated drum beats, but I figured that, even though I enjoyed them immensely, I should probably get them checked out.

The surgery was uneventful. They biopsied several enlarged lymph nodes, sent them to a research institute where they presumably gave it the official diagnosis of whatthefuckisthisosis, and sent me on my merry way.

Let me take a second to derail my story so that I can paint you a picture of the kind of people I was dealing with. The doctor who was to tell me the results of the biopsy sat me down and began explaining what was wrong with me. He told me that the lumps were benign. Good news, for sure, but there was obviously still a problem here. I stared at him expectantly, waiting for an explanation as to why my lymph nodes were growing to the size of large walnuts, but that elucidation was not to come. “Sooo…,” I prompted. “Well, it’s like this…,” he began. “Your lymph nodes are like red cars. Statistically, red cars get into accidents more often than other cars. Your lymph nodes are more likely to get in an accident, so to speak, except with cancer.” He smiled, proud of the way he explained it to me in a way I could understand. “So I’m statistically more likely to get lymph node cancer than the average person.” His smile went away. Apparently I had missed the subtle nuances of his simile. When pressed for further information, it turned out that there was no evidence linking cancer to my condition at all. They had no idea what the fuck was happening with my lymph nodes…

Anyways, several weeks later, my neck had swollen disgustingly. I looked like a pelican carrying a grapefruit in its mouth wattle (right in time for senior pictures!). After several calls to the doctor, and several brush offs telling us that we needed to calm down, this was part of the healing process, my mother (skilled in medicine herself) tracked down that sumbitch at his house. This was extremely lucky for me, because soon after the doctor agreed to meet us, my neck split open like a pair of jeans at a Big Mac eating contest.

The squeamish may not want to read the next paragraph…

I knew you couldn’t look away, you sick fuck! It turns out that I had a massive infection in my neck, and it had burst at the weakest point, my stitches. Most of you won’t appreciate this next detail, but I’m sure those of you who have had like infections will understand–I will never forget the smell. Puss and blood were leaking from my neck, and there was an overwhelming, sweet, putrid, stench of rot and decay coming from me. Unforgettable. The doctor quickly put me in a chair and lanced the bastard with no numbing agent. I’ve had several major injuries, and this is by far the most pain I have ever experienced, heightened, I think, by the terrible smell. After the doctor finished draining the rotten puddin’ from my neck (try to eat tapioca right now, I dare you), he prescribed several strong antibiotics and again, sent me on my way, though this time, he may have been apologetic. Actually, that may have been my imagination. Heartless bastard.

Now go eat this!

Now go eat this!

That is actually all preface for the main impetus of this story. We are just NOW getting there. Thanks for your patience.

As you can probably imagine, at this point, I distrusted most doctors (bolstered by another invasive surgery that I didn’t need). So, when I started bleeding out of my ass, it came as very little surprise. They had already screwed up in every other way conceivable. Why not this?

I’m not talking about a little bit of blood. I thought I was going to bleed out in one of the most embarrassing, and perhaps most hilarious deaths of all time! How do you rig a tourniquet in your colon? You don’t! Time for more doctors!

I was referred to a gastroenterologist in a shady part of town, bars on the windows. Looking back, I wonder if they were to keep people out, or keep the “patients” in. But, whatever the case, I went in anyways, my mother there for moral support.

I knew what to expect, or at least I thought I did. But if all went well, this was only going to be a consultation and not a prostate poking degradation. I was so, so wrong.

I entered the “doctor’s office” and immediately had to suppress the urgent need to flee. Dead animals stared at me with their glassy, all seeing eyes. Noting, it seemed, with pleasure, my discomfort. The floor was covered in brown shag carpet. The walls were faux wood. The chairs were brown leather. And the man behind the mahogany desk looked as if he had just recently stepped out of 1974.  I don’t know the rules of propriety from the ’70s, but polyester suits aren’t considered “professional attire” anymore.

Probably this guy. Note his interest in the child.

It was this man. Note his interest in the child.

Your anus is the gateway to your soul!

Your anus is the gateway to your soul!

After a couple of minutes of friendly chatter and describing my symptoms.  Doctor Beard-n-spectacle was fairly certain what had happened. You see, the doctors who had cut the lymph nodes out of my neck, the ones who didn’t clean themselves well enough? The ones who had given me an infection? They poisoned me with antibiotics. The dosage was so high, that not only did it kill the bacteria in my neck, but it killed all the good little flora (I picture flowers in my colon) in my intestine as well. The ones that help you digest things properly, and more generally, not die.

I’m fairly certain that this is the medical equivalent of being fucked in the ass by my doctors without lubrication.

Speaking of lubrication. That’s what our polyester-blended friend pulled out of his desk. “Drop your drawers and bend over the desk please!” I froze. Blood rushed to my head. I could hardly think. “What, uh, I though we already knew what was wrong?!” I stammered. “Oh, I’m just going to take a sample to put on a slide in order to be safe.” I looked at him blankly. The prostrate probing. There was no escaping it. I decided to put on a brave face for my mother, who was looking at me nervously. “Mom, can you please leave the room?” Looking a bit alarmed, she replied, “Are you sure?” Hell yes I was sure.

She left. I pulled down my pants. He put on his glove (I think. The next few minutes were blurry.) Lubed up. Bent me over his desk. And deflowered me. Would you like to see my view while all this was going on? Of course you would.

This is what I saw.

This is what I saw.

Did I mention that he had abnormally large hands?

Yeah, it was like that.

Yeah, it was like that.


That's gotta hurt!

That's gotta hurt!

It did mister owl. It did.

Needless to say, I never went back to that doctor again. I did need a follow up appointment, however, with another gastroenterologist. This time, the appointment was actually in a real doctor’s office, where I was up on a table. He lovingly draped a paper blanket over me so as to protect my modesty, and apologized for what he was going to do next.

It was at that moment I knew the last “doctor” (read: pervert) had violated me. Violated me hard. And that’s why it takes me a six pack of beer and several sedatives to step foot in a doctor’s office.