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I Had A Painful Secret. I Was Shocked When I Discovered My Friends Had The Same One

I Had A Painful Secret. I Was Shocked When I Discovered My Friends Had The Same One
I suffered a debilitating throbbing in my rear for 48 hours before I made an appointment with my doctor.Upon glimpsing the source of my agony, she immediately called a surgeon with a months-long waitlist who agreed to take me that afternoon on her lunch break.“Does it feel like glass?” the surgeon asked, her face peering into my nether regions. The parchment paper underneath me crinkled as I shifted my weight on the table. I felt like one of the turkey meatballs I had made for dinner.“Yes,” I groaned. “Like a giant piece of glass in my butt.”Her diagnosis: a thrombosed haemorrhoid.A haemorrhoid is a swollen blood vessel located on or near the rectum or anus. It can be brought on by experiencing pressure in that area from pregnancy, straining during a bowel movement, sitting too long on the toilet (as a mum of five kids, I’ll admit sometimes I linger in the quiet of my bathroom), lifting something heavy, obesity or a combination of factors. Haemorrhoids affect somewhere between 20-50% of the population, with more women than men reporting them. Rectal vein inflammation can be resolved but also return, depending on fibre intake and if lifestyle changes aren’t made. Supplements, proper hydration and nutrition changes can help prevent them. A thrombosed haemorrhoid is rarer. My doctor gave me the pleasant description, “it’s like a balloon filled with cement”. It’s a hardened blood clot rather than your run-of-the-mill swollen vein.For two days, the throbbing was so painful it took my breath away and made my teeth chatter. Sleep was impossible. Alone, I peeked at my backside in the mirror. It baffled me how something no wider than a dime could be so aggravating.When I was a child, my parents were secretive about their health issues, so when this came up, I instinctively felt shame about my own. I believed my friends in their mid-30s and 40s would think it was gross or weird, and I was embarrassed to tell anyone about what I was experiencing.I couldn’t get comfortable in any position, sitting, standing – even lying down. Any pressure on my booty took my breath away.Schlepping kids to and from school made all the time spent in my minivan unbearable. At home, I couldn’t even make eye contact with my beloved Peloton bike. The thought of my bottom bouncing on the seat made my body tense up. I’d never had this brand of ouch during pregnancy.But the surgeon now looking at the small cherry of flesh in my bum announced, “It’s not that bad.” She told me to flex like I was pooping and stuck her finger in my rectum to examine the area as I clutched my knees, lying sideways on the table. A familiar wave of anxiety overwhelmed me, reminding me of countless face-scrunching pregnancy exams I spent facing white ceilings and walls.I expected a quick procedure to instantly alleviate my agony – a nick to the 1cm blood clot or rubber band ligation, which involves placing a small rubber band around the base of the bump, causing it to fall off within days – so I was shocked when the surgeon instead instructed, “take five baths a day. It will improve eventually.” I wanted to scream at her, “Do you have time to take five baths a day?!!” Instead I asked, “You’ve seen haemorrhoids like mine just go away?”The surgeon said I was going to be in pain either way and emphasised it would be better to give the clot a chance to resolve without medical intervention. She said the baths would help relieve the pain and help stimulate blood circulation to dissolve the clot. I wasn’t sure what to think. This hurt needed to be gone yesterday.I felt gaslit, ashamed and alone with my pain.That night an Internet search on my predicament turned up renderings of elderly men clutching their hips, not a middle-aged mum like me. I wanted to hide. After three miserable days of taking stool softeners and clutching the sides of my bathtub whenever I found the time to soak my haemorrhoid, the razor-sharp sensation subsided a little, but my affliction was still swollen.I only left the house to transport my kids when necessary and for a visit to a chiropractor and acupuncturist, who I hoped would provide an alternative solution. Unfortunately, there simply was no hack to fix it. My self-imposed lockdown ended when I went out to grab brunch with my girlfriends. I spilled the tea on my derriere before we even took sips of our espressos. Perched awkwardly in my chair, I cried out, “I have a haemorrhoid!”As soon as I said those four words out loud, I felt the muscles tensing throughout my body soften. My shameful secret was finally out.“Oh honey, who doesn’t?” one friend, a mum of three, drawled. She launched into a hilarious story about lying in child’s pose with her butt cheeks taped to a gurney while a surgeon removed her “blueberry,” as she called it. She then air-dropped her surgeon’s contact card to me. I promptly called her on my way to my car, only to find out it would take eight months to get an appointment with her.Emboldened by the vulnerability I shared with my friends, when a woman asked how I was doing after that, I laughed and admitted the truth: “I have a raging haemorrhoid.”Without skipping a beat, a menopausal friend moaned, “Oh, I know this trial! I’ve had it all – haemorrhoids, headaches and hormones.”I wiped away tears of laughter as she described living in her bathtub for days. Now I knew why she religiously juiced fruits and veggies.“I’ll take fibre and magnesium citrate supplements till the day I die,” a powerhouse tech executive told me matter-of-factly. She hasn’t had any recurrences since her first tango with an unexpected guest on her rear.Another friend said she named her two haemorrhoids, as if they were children, because she’d gotten so used to living with them.I learned all about creams, baths and other remedies, but the most soothing balm was for my heart. I am grateful to have access to quality health care – something I know many people are not privileged to have – but nothing can replace the in-person and virtual care of my community when navigating midlife health issues. The hurried nature of a 15-minute doctor’s appointment doesn’t provide the connection and care I need.The giggles and belly laughs I shared with other women assured me there was nothing to be embarrassed about. Texts like, “Can I bring you something? Are you feeling better? This too shall pass,” made me feel seen and cared for as I stretched out in my tub.“Keep calling the doctor if it’s still bothering you,” my bestie told me. “You don’t need to feel bad.”She was right. I called the surgeon and she urged me to continue to wait it out, noting it would take up to two weeks for the blood clot to dissolve. Instead, it took five weeks before I was reunited with my stationary bike.If this ever happens again, I will heed my confidante’s advice, call the surgeon’s office and demand to have it removed. I’m not suffering like that again.I realise now that as anguishing and embarrassing as my haemorrhoid was, once I confided in my friends, I was never alone. Honestly, the best thing to come out of all of this was the pain-in-the-butt bond I shared with almost every woman I talked to.This experience reminded me that being vulnerable and sharing our struggles – even our intimate ones – can make them exponentially better. There’s no reason to suffer alone – especially when so many of us are going through similar things. We need to have each other’s backsides.Megan Thompson is a writer, mother of five and host of “I Can Do That,” a podcast for moms who want to reignite their spark. Based in Silicon Valley, she’s working on a book about raising nonanxious Gen Alpha kids. Find her on Instagram @mrsmeganthompson or online at https://mrsmeganthompson.com/i-can-do-that-podcast/.Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at [email protected] You Be Mistaking Bowel Cancer For Piles?'My Daughter Suffered Brain Damage As A Baby – 7 Words From A Stranger Changed Her Life''My Boys, 8 And 11, Still Bath Together – My Friends Think It's Inappropriate'

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