Shitz Bath

As if the cancer, bursitis, breaking/thinning hair and hooded eyelids aren’t enough… I have to sit three times a day in a sitz bath so my ass heals.

Now, post-op the port all I have to do is look at my pool and suffer the heat. And that is way better than having to fill up my baggie with water and pray that the other end of the hose doesn’t come loose from the bath spraying my back. Actually that isn’t even the worst part- no, the worst part is sitting in luke warm water and trying to control both my kegel and ass at the same time.

Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to be asking Alexa how much longer on my ass timer while I have to run across to the sink to refill my tubbie because the warm water created the sissy effect and my husband watches in disgust because there are no walls!? Now add a milk dud bobbing up and down as I empty the water into the toilet.

Talk about rock bottom.

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Measure Twice, Cut Once

Today my mother came over to swim before my youngest leaves for camp. She was wearing the bathing suit that I’d bought for her- the same one that I have. In fact, the same bathing suit that I’d based the placement of my port. The one where I believed should be placed on my left since my bathing suit (and dress) has the strap going from L-R.

Anyway, I was wrong. The strap comes down from the right side. …And the dress? That comes down from the left side but I failed to take into consideration one other key point: I’ll never fit into that dress again.

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Twice As Nice

Between Tuesday’s procedure and today (Fridays), I’d say I’m somewhat tired. Not too tired to accidentally sleep on my left side, nor too tired to sleep on my back; I cannot sleep on my stomach.

I figure this evening I will just sleep standing.

The good news is, I can still fold laundry.

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“Fill her cup up more”

As if menopause isn’t attractive enough on me with my sagging ex-friends, standarting (standing/farting) and immobile arms, I quite fancy the dentist sized treasure chest in mine.

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No dignity left. That’s right- tomorrow morning I will once again go before the ass man but this time sedated. This time, unaware of what is happening, nor when to clinch.

And it should happen as it will– sharting on his table or worse, after his tools come from my arse.

You see, I’ve barely eaten in days- prepping to empty my bowels and for days I’ve been stellar. Nothing happening other than the standard sissying.

That was, until today. Somewhere out of nowhere, it began… think: newbornish. Several times today what I mistook for some gas was the entire chamber. Thrice I made the same mistake- so I tried to eat all the bread I could find.

And as luck should be for me… I realized the bread I inhaled was Keto bread. Meaning, the bread that I ate, was fraught with fiber- more fiber in one tiny, matzah- tam-tam sized piece to create lava just in time for my 6am fiss-eroctomy.

Not only have I tried for this rectal professional to not see what’s going on in that area, but now he’ll slip and slide trying to ease my physical pain.

Worse, in 6-weeks and then 12, I’ll have to drag my mortified being to his office right about the time he’d be able to move forward with his career.


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Well, the other day I had the port placed in the softest, thinnest and most sensitive place. It looks and feels as if I’ve placed my Air-pod case beneath and all I have to say is, disgusting.

Another woman was in the recovery/waiting area when I returned and I found out she has a newborn. She has breast cancer so when she told me, all I thought was, “her’s will be temporary.”

Anyhow, I asked if I could have it on my left side- after we discussed the difference between a heart attack and port pain- so that’s good.

In case you’re wondering right v. left… I chose left because of my $78 bathing suit that has the one strap coming from the left shoulder on a diagonal. I got it from FB/China so it was easier than dealing with their customer service.

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Idle Thoughts

I wonder if birds think, today I’m going to fly at car height.

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Do you know how annoying it is when calling a store that utilizes the automated person… and you could be speaking so clearly but some asshole in your presence (in my case, my child) is talking and the automated person hears them and stops understanding ME?!!

The other day all I wanted was a live agent, but “before” I could be transferred, I had to answer a few questions. Unfortunately for me, my little shits in the background were too busy thinking it was funny that they were talking and the robot kept stopping- so I had to hang up.

Needless to say, nobody will be medicated this month because I refuse to call Express Scripts again!

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The other day during chemo, it was nurse Trudy (the hunchback) and another elderly woman I didn’t know.

Immediately I became deflated as I went to sit in the corner- hoping to escape Trudy’s eyes but forgetting my drugs are “called” out for all of the nurses. In any event, I sat in the corner, situated my tray table and the thing that holds the medicine up high and prayed for the other woman.


Nurse: Hi, I’m (forgot/don’t care). Which side is your port?

Me: I don’t have one.

Nurse: (gasps. tisks. shakes head) That is no good young lady. It is very dangerous to get the type of drugs you’re getting in your veins.

Me: I have good veins though.

Nurse: You won’t for long. How long will you be on chemo?

Me: (knife to my heart) Indefinetly.

Nurse: I was a pic nurse since 1980 and the best of the best. All my patients have had ports. It’s safer for you, its safer for me…

Me: How is it safer for you?

Nurse: For one thing, if these drugs were to get into your tissue …

Meanwhile, had nurse Jamie been there, she probably would have said contrary to the nurse- in fact, she’s told me many times my veins are great and its only because the old nurses are used to ports because its easier for them.

So, after hemming and hawing, but knowing this is my only recourse, I’m doing it two days after my ass surgery.

The rush? I need to be off one of my drugs for a few weeks before and a few weeks after the procedure- in order to heal. Now, judging by the random geriatric cut on my ankle that I didn’t feel, nor know was there until I did… (which is still not healed)… I’m effed.

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So Much To Say

Where to begin… I’ll start with my ass. After months and months of slathering heart medication in the general area of my fissures (I also won’t lift the chain when it comes undone from the toilet back either), I have decided to throw caution to the wind and have the procedure.

The only thing I can say is, thank goodness I will be asleep for this intrusive and humiliating act of indecency.

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