What I didn’t get in stretch marks from pregnancy and childbirth, I received in the form of pregnancy hemorrhoids. Those painful, grape-like bumps around my backside were not exactly the badge of honor I was hoping for. While everyone else was proudly displaying their stretch marks as symbols of strength and resilience, I found myself grappling with an embarrassing and uncomfortable reality.
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The discomfort kicked in when I hit eight weeks of pregnancy with my second child. At first, I was clueless about what was happening down there. I thought hemorrhoids were just something that happened to the elderly.
One day, when the throbbing and aching became impossible to ignore, I decided to investigate. I headed to the bathroom, where the only full-length mirror in my house resides. With a deep breath, I dropped my pants, bent over, and peered back.
OMG, WHAT THE FUUUUUUCCCCKKK ARE THOSE?!
Lumps and bumps everywhere, clinging around my rear. Hemorrhoids can be such little jerks.
I screamed to my partner, “Google hemorrhoids! What do I do?!”
“No way am I Googling that,” he replied.
“Help me find my phone!”
After some frantic research, I discovered that relief could be found in a tube of hemorrhoid cream. Unfortunately, this meant a trip to the grocery store or local pharmacy—cue the public humiliation.
I just got over the embarrassment of buying super-absorbent pads; now I was facing the dreaded anal aisle of the grocery store. It was me, a selection of enemas, laxatives, and other rectal remedies. Oh, and a 90-year-old lady with two gallons of prune juice.
To top it all off, I now had to buy the Preparation H. I awkwardly concealed the tube in my hand as I approached the checkout. I looked around, trying not to draw attention to my purchase. I briefly considered stealing it but quickly realized that being caught with hemorrhoid cream would be even worse.
“Please let there be a female cashier,” I silently begged. Instead, I was greeted by a teenager with acne.
Just my luck. He would probably run back to his friends and make jokes about the woman who bought hemorrhoid cream. I should have grabbed some bread or milk to make my purchase less conspicuous.
I placed the tube on the conveyor belt, trying to act nonchalant. I wanted to shout, “This is for my grandma!” but that would only make me look more guilty.
Then, as if the universe had a twisted sense of humor, a handsome firefighter walked up to my lane, smiling as he grabbed a soda and candy bar. I felt my face heat up as I darted my eyes back to the credit card keypad.
“Did you find everything okay today, ma’am?” the cashier asked.
I wanted to scream, “Just bag it up already!”
With a death glare aimed at the cashier, I muttered, “Yesss.”
He handed me the bag, and I dashed out of the store like a ninja escaping a crime scene.
Once home, I tore open the box only to discover that I needed wipes first. Great. Do we even have baby wipes? I rummaged through my kid’s bathroom and ended up using dried-out wipes, wetting them with water to clean the area.
Next came the hemorrhoid cream, complete with an applicator. Oh, heck no. I opted for a Q-tip instead and applied the ointment like a pro.
I used the cream religiously for two weeks with no relief. Frustrated, I finally went to the doctor, who confirmed what I already knew: I had hemorrhoids. A stronger prescription was called in, and suddenly, I was filled with annoyance. All that embarrassment at the store could have been avoided with a simple doctor’s visit!
If I had known, I would have chosen the awkward rectal exam over public humiliation any day—well, unless the doctor was cute. Then I might just peace out.
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