… just not the way it used to

Exactly a year ago today, I lost a very close, lifelong, friend …. and there’s not a day that goes by when I don’t think very fondly of him and the important role he had played in my entire life up to then.

I’m talking about my arsehole.

Now that I suspect I’ve got your attention with a couple of introductory pars I thought – hoped – I’d never have to write, I’d better explain.

In the early hours of December 13 last year, a surgical team at the Royal Brisbane and Women’s Hospital removed the Spanish dancer that had made my rectum its close-to-ballsroom.

During that 12-hour operation that started late afternoon on December 12, they decided my 73-year-old arsehole had reached its … ahem … used-by date. They decided to dump the task he had performed admirably for all those decades, even though he himself modestly rated his role at only number two.

In their wisdom, they decided that my arsehole should be located instead hanging off my belly. Permanently, as it turned out, for the rest of my time on this planet.

Can I say I’ve come to grips with my new arsehole 12 full months on? No, it still gives me the shits, just not the way I miss terribly.

As are the things we saw together over those eight decades and can no longer share!

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Behave! Minds out of the gutter, please! My original bum over that long journey saw absolutely nothing inserted into it that shouldn’t have been. Never.

I’m talking about the amazing whole pearl perch I had down at Eagle Street in my 20s. The totally unforgettable paella in Barth-a-lona on the Mediterranean way back when, washed down with too much Catalonian wine. The socarrat alone was worth the meal price. We shared both those amazing journeys at opposite end of the digestive tract.

So, a full year on, have I accepted my colostomy as the half-glass full guy I used to be?

Not really. I haven’t even named that colostomy and/or the pouches I now use, which I was told early on was a fun and compensatory thing to do. I must admit spraying shit all over Rupert, as in Murdoch, would always be grand but that naming has yet to be done. Peter Dutton? The entire hosts of Sky LNPNews After Dark?

What I might share with you at another time is the reasons I cooked up as advantages of having your Number One, Number Two arsehole retired from service.

That, of course, includes the fact that with a colostomy, you can take a shit anytime you like. Whether you want to or not.

The downside of that, of course, can be some embarrassing noises and that occurred the first time I bravely ventured out to a restaurant with my new arsehole in tow mid this year.

I quickly put my left hand under my right armpit and pretended to make those farting noises we all used to make as kids and I’m pretty sure I got away with it.

Don Gordon-Brown

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