Apologies to my loyal reader for my absence of recent days.
On Wednesday I lost a dear and close friend that I’ve known all my life. Hard to believe but it’s true. Thought we’d be together forever.
Oh, the places we enjoyed travelling to over more than seven decades. The things we’ve seen together.
And the things he’s seen too on his own but let’s quickly move on seeing I’m talking here about my rectum.
Rectum? Well, an eleven-hour operation didn’t do it much good. Our time together was largely terminal anyway but the relationship is now well and truly over – and that’s given me the shits in a way I could never have imagined. My bum chum and I are no more.
A quick recap. Just over a year ago, a bum probe showed the Spanish had established a dance floor not far up my muckhole, just a knuckle or two from the cloaca. Sorry for the technical talk.
We thought radiation and chemo had knocked the bastard out of my ballpark area but it came back a few months ago. On Wednesday, the plan was for a little bit of harmless pipe slicing and reconnecting that would rid me of this pest and I’d have a temporary shit bag for a few months.
But shit happens, right? It seems I have a very narrow pelvis and the surgeons couldn’t get the staple gun into the area to reconnect that piping. Yeah, I know. You think someone could have run down to a stationery cupboard in hospital admin and grabbed a smaller paper stapler as a stop-gap measure. Might have stopped a planned five-hour op turning into eleven. It now appears that much more than a cancerous length of rectum has been removed. Almost the whole shit and capoodle maybe? Maybe I should just be thankful they found the space to yank it all out.
A narrow pelvis! So, I’ve lived 73 years without knowing I’ve had a potentially deadly deformity. The surgeons had me basically upside down for so long my face looked like a blue balloon. Buffalo Bill would have taken less time to turn a victim into a lampshade in Silence of the Lambs.
It sounds a bit like it was touch and go and I ended up in ICU for a few days.
I’ve always been aware of some minor deformities in my physical appearance, and one area sadly lacking in enormity where that would have been nice.
I was a scrawny young man and if I went down to the beach I generally kicked sand in my own face first to save time.
And I had to go to agricultural college to study standards of excellence to know I was more likely to be headed to the abattoir than stud duties.
Luckily, one beautiful lady saw me in human form as a suitable sire for three wonderful sons.
But a narrow fucking pelvis! I was my high school’s mile and cross country champion and only now I find out it was because I had very low wind resistance? And does this news of a narrow pelvis make me a tight arse? I’ve never seen myself that way. Shouted my fair share of drinks, I would have thought. Holding onto money was never one my life’s great desires. Splashed it around when I could. And even when I shouldn’t have.
Yet because of this deformity, I’ve now got a shit bag for the rest of my life. It’s carrying on like an old unserviced Victa two-stroke at the moment, no doubt a conversation starter in cattle class down the track some time. Shit is still going to happen; just not in the way I’ve been used to.
A kind lady with a permanent stoma told me at a pre-operation procedure last Thursday that she loves her shit bag – she called it ScoMo and she’s not even political – and suggested that I should give mine a name. A nurse suggested Brad and Brad Shit came to mind. General laughter filled the recovery room.
So suggestions please!
I’m thinking Sky News or News Corps as distinct possibilities seeing they are even more full of shit than Morrison was, as hard as that is to believe. Andrew Bolt? James Campbell? Ideas please. I like the idea of spraying shit all over Bolt or Campbell or just about anyone working in Australian media right now.
Don Gordon-Brown
TOP: A pre-operation photo to remind me of when I was just your plain, typical, everyday arsehole.
Postscript: If you’re of that age when bowel test kits start arriving, use them! And spend any length of time in hospital and listen to the very sad stories around you and a permanent shit bag might just the least of your fucking problems. And finally, NURSES ROCK, OKAY!
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