Rare Brown Tunnel Frog

Rare Brown Tunnel Frog

A few months ago, I was referred to see a proctologist to check out what was going on inside my butt. All those ads on TV refer to the list of symptoms that make me sure I’ve had irritable bowel syndrome for years…bloating, constipation, wind, (hmm do they refer to wind?) digestive problems; Tick that’s me. And I put up with a lot of discomfort. Oh, come on Jack, you’re a victim of advertising, says the loving wife. But what if, I do have a problem, down there? I want to find out the truth.

So along I went to an appointment with the specialist to be greeted by a stern looking old man dressed in a drab suit sitting behind his large, wooden desk. Over in the corner were models of various parts of the human anatomy that made me feel likewise dis-joined. The medico asked me a series of questions; what shape, consistency, color and exits did my ‘motions’ have? All in a very matter-of-fact way and then decided that I should have a colonoscopy.

I tried to joke with him about my problems with flatulence, but he simply ignored me. Hell, that’s familiar, because on the frequent letting out of air which is out of my control. Unless of course the aroma is particularly stink ridden then depending on the nature of my relationship with bystanders are somewhere on a scale between a death stare and, ‘Fuck, you stink!’ Not so long-ago Anna and I lightened these problems by nominating awards for the smelliest emittances. Keep up a front, make a joke of things. Best goes to one that still lingers between the cheeses and juices in Coles Supermarket. So, rank that we no longer shop there. Wasn’t even me, that honor belongs to my stepdaughter, Natasha.

“If farting was a national sport, you two are a walk up start for the team,” is one of Anna’s favorite retorts.

Back when we first got together, must be a decade ago now, there were wonderful giggly moments early in the morning. A time when emittances from bottom orifices are rife.

“Watch out. It’s the call of a rare brown tunnel frog.”

“So sad, all alone and desires a mate…”

“You just wish you had one of your own.”

Rare, brown tunnel frogs could take more time than Sunday papers, or pre-football brunches.

The doctor, specialist, proctologist, gastroenterologist, egad there are too many prefixes on that word, booked me in for day surgery-colonoscopy, in a month’s time and gave me a list of instructions on how to prepare. I’m home thinking, well can’t be anything too serious, up in my rear end or he’d have told me to present A & E damn quickly. I felt confident I don’t have a case of fartus-maximus colon cancer.

Preparation for this invasion of my butt involved a few days of avoiding certain foods, then avoiding solid food and then avoiding food altogether. All those instructions were written down for me, no problem. Inconvenient, especially as I’d be the one who had to pick up thinks like jelly and clear chicken broth, oh and in exactly which aisle?

‘Regressing to non-solid food,’ said Natasha.

I also needed to consume drink a powdered drink. Bloody awful, tasted like a combination of a sports drink and gutter water. Designed to flush me out. It made me go to the toilet a lot, not with diarrhoea but instead jets of liquid which pour out of my arse like someone turned taps on full bore and stretched out openings. Wow I was finding out all sorts of new things about bums. Unfortunate for rare brown tunnel frog its swampy habitat is being drained.

Three days of no real food and having to vomit liquid out of my butthole made me feel almost delirious drunk.

When my mother was in what she called, her ‘declining years’, an outing meant searching for a toilet, being hyper-aware that at any minute she would require these facilities, and no, she couldn’t wait until we got home. Nope, my butt on pump-out function was way worse.

When I got to the hospital, I changed into one of those nighties that always seem just a little too short. Luckily my penis and balls were so frightened they shrunk up into my body, decreasing to zero chances of exposing myself. I lay down on the bed and was wheeled into a room where examination would take place. Then I was told, ‘Bit of a delay, there’s been an emergency, you’re pushed down the list.’

 There I am about to pass out from inward pressure of an empty bowel, sucking my butt cheeks together. Not sure if that feeling down there is a fart brewing or another one of those liquid, preparation evoked implosions. You know perhaps they could sell that drink in the workplace, then when you say, ‘He gives me the shits!’ Slip a dab of the powder into the espresso machine capsule and rescind the whole motion…don’t laugh Jack, you’ll shit yourself. 

Normally my life is full of constant exciting online distractions but now I was alone, dressed in a nightie, waiting for my butt to be probed.

My mind went to some strange places. All sorts of bum jokes. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a wall diagram of the inner workings of a human being’s bowel and butt. Riddled with every possible disease. I don’t know who would benefit from this diagram, surely doctors know what this stuff looks like and doesn’t constantly have to refer to a diagram? Maybe not? I stared at that poster for what seemed like hours, trying to decide which horrible problem I would prefer. Anal fissures? Polyps, Gastroenterocolitis? Volvolvus? Could this be the result of bum on Volvo leather seats? Rapunzel Syndrome? I was pretty sure I didn’t have Rapunzel Syndrome as that occurs in people who eat their own hair, but what if every takeaway meal I ate had a couple of pieces of hair in it and all that hair stored up in my guts for years!? STRANGERS’ HAIR! Long, thick black ones, like the Japanese girl at my favorite sushi bar. Short curly ones? Thinking about this made me feel increasingly sick. With nothing to take my mind off a mess of hair clogging up my anus I would go slowly insane.

Finally, the doctor arrived. He showed me a long camera to be inserted into my butt. A lot thicker than I imagined. What happened to all this micro-technology I keep hearing about? This thing was just like a long windy fat semi-rigid rope with a camera on one end. Probed by that thing will be uncomfortable. As if, having done site preparation work, a developer is now to build a sky-scraper tower right where the rare brown tunnel frog used to live. Luckily, I’d be given some sort of anesthetic that wouldn’t knock me out completely, ‘Soft anesthesia,’ the man in charge of gas told me. I couldn’t help thinking I was now exposed to a new set of truths. Yet this would be enough to make me unaware of what was going on. They rolled me onto my side to ensure easy access to my rear opening and shot me up with drugs. There I assume I basically went to sleep because I have no memory of anything besides one moment: I am not sure how far into the procedure we were, but I woke up facing a TV screen showing a live shot of inside of my butt. Fascinated by what I saw, I immediately started asking questions. “Whereabouts is that? What part of my body are you in? Is THAT normal?” Then I suddenly became aware of the long camera moving inside me. I started to shout. “OKAY I CAN FEEL IT NOW. THIS IS PRETTY HORRIBLE. YOURE GONNA HAVE TO TAKE THAT OUT OF ME.” Someone quickly pumped me full of some more drugs and I drifted off again.

I awoke sometime later in another room to a nurse asking me how I felt. I told her felt fine and thought I was ready to go home. I tried to get up but then realized everything was moving from side to side like I secretly moved onto a boat while I was knocked out. Shipped off to international waters so they could sell my anus videos on a black market? Butt-porn, should be buyers for that, right? Anything could have happened because I felt as if there was a dark abyss back there that smacked of “dead sleep” status. Strangely refreshing yet repulsive, I wanted more similar sleep, at the same time oddly annoyed someone could give you chemicals to take away all your worldly awareness! When you slumber at home, tiniest tinkles, a tap, a garden leaf, even an insect can bring you awake, in day surgery nothing would be able to penetrate your sleep. A new truth I began to understand. I lay back down and napped for a bit longer until I was sure that I was on dry land, and no one was going to put anything more into my veins.

The sandwich – never was I so overjoyed to be confronted with a neat row of quarter cut mixed sandwiches. Big chunky whole grains smiled up in welcome like the sight of dry land to a sailor lost on an ocean of ‘low fiber’ for previous three days. Tomato, cheese, ham, tuna, and celery, oh joy all my Christmases come at once. I blamed my spinning head, and a slight pain behind my temples on euphoria inherit in being given real food.

 Afterwards the nurse helped me to get dressed, which was more a case of hovering outside the curtains and asking, ‘Are you managing, Jack?’

Well, no, not really darl. I’d like you to come in here and assist an old man with bending over, reaching down for my trouser legs, because someone shifted my center of gravity while I was dealing with big black camera-tube and likelihood of a hair stuck somewhere in my alimentary canal. What other secret things were done?

Nurse and I walked to the waiting room. She loved me only as much to supervise this shuffle.

I sat next to another man who just endured the same procedure. He was telling nurses that he had not been properly knocked out and was awake for the entire thing. She nodded politely but basically ignoring him. I wanted to tell him how I sort of woke up, but I felt too dizzy. Plus, I’m not sure if my screaming at the butt image was imagined because a ‘can’t remember’ aura, way worse than as a result of any Friday night drinking session, settled in my brain. I didn’t feel any real bond with this man other than that we had both had long tubes inside both our butts very recently. It’s not like drinks with my army pals.

Eventually the doctor walked into the room and grinned when he saw me. Getting a grin from someone who has just seen inside your butt is a strange new experience I hope not to repeat. I have dim recall of him bending over my prone form wearing regalia that looked like skiing masks. Must keep shit out of their eyes, I suppose. He hands me a page with color print out of pictures from my lower bowel. At first, I can’t shake the feeling that this is like Instagram shots taken while he was in there. Special mementoes of a big black camera up my butt, look-out shots from atop a semi-rigid tower erected inside me. Indisputable proof this doctor rifled through realms of the rare brown tunnel frog. Then I latch onto words like, normal…no evidence of polyps… I can’t deal with these truths yet. Nope, still feels weird looking at my caecum, ileo-caecal valve and appendiceal orifice. Pinkish images look more as if they should be used for special effects in a sci-fi film, something to do with glistening growths on caves in another planet. Circle of my poor distressed rectum reminds of a scar left behind following emergence of an alien life form, like in that film with Sigourney Weaver.

Breaking into my efforts to recognize parts of my own anatomy, albeit from angles never seen, the doctor spoke to the man who was next to me: “We didn’t find anything wrong with you, you’re all fine.” Then he looked over at me and suddenly corrected himself: “No, wait, Jack, you are all fine.” He turned back to the other man: “You have hemorrhoids'.” Pysch! What a prankster.

My bum-job comrade doesn’t mention anything being awake. Guess he thought it wasn’t worth taking this experience further up hospital hierarchy. Even if it is not true. Anyway, that’s the anesthetist's job, you never see them afterwards. Those merchants of gas only come in to introduce themselves before they smash you unconscious.

“We have injected your hemorrhoid's.” I hear the quack say. Can’t really avoid overhearing such personal information, being right there. Part of me feels a pang on this man’s behalf.

“You are going to be a bit sore for a few days.” Continued the doctor. “Suggest not planning to ride a bicycle, or trying to earn some pocket money having anal sex.”

The man looked quite annoyed, but I didn’t listen to his complaints. I was too busy enjoying the wave of relief that I didn’t have cancer or a fistful of strangers’ hair tangling around inside me. Plus, I was caught up with the notion that this medico fancies himself as a stand-up comic, specializing in bum humor. Weird when he was so dead pan in his consulting rooms. Maybe he thinks this is lightening baggage of his camera invasion.

I can’t help considering at what point of their extensive studies does a medico-in-training decide to venture into bum doctor expertise? Do they have some sort of selection test or criteria which indicates talent with rear ends? What about having to admit – in my job I deal with shit!? But wait after prep-purge there can’t be anything left up there. These pictures sure show squeaky clean, no poo brown. In fact, I may never pass wind again, going to take days, at least. I am also wondering after years of residence; my rare brown tunnel frog is now an extinct species.