Enema at the gates

The expression “friends with benefits” used to mean nothing more than acquaintances who had enviable dental and pension plans.

That was back before sex became almost compulsory. Buying condoms was still an endearingly delicate process.

These days, you can get them just about everywhere, including from machines in airport washrooms that also dispense breath mints, headache pills and (you never know how your evening might turn out) stick-on tattoos.

When I was young and optimistic, you sidled into a drugstore, hoping you got a male assistant, and sheepishly whispered your requirements. If there were no guys behind the counter, you bought something innocuous and went elsewhere.

I tried six places once without finding a man. By the seventh, I’d spent all my money on combs and ballpoints.

Now, with most of my troubles behind me, the embarrassing purchase is the home-enema kit.

So many ailments at this point in a man’s life are literally a pain in the butt. It triggers an almost automatic medical response: “Undo your belt and bend over.” What? For a sprained wrist? Why there? Why not somewhere more easily accessible and less likely to affect the elegance of your seated posture? At least with a sprained wrist, you don’t have to take an inflatable rubber doughnut when the lieutenant-governor invites you for tea and Scrabble. (What do you mean, she doesn’t?) How much nicer for all concerned if the proctologist could stick a questing digit in your ear. Or your belly button. All you would need to prepare for even the most in-depth probe would be a lint brush. An enema would become someone who wasn’t your friend.

How much nicer for all concerned if the proctologist could stick a questing digit in your ear

As it is, what I look for first in a doctor is skinny fingers.

It all started with hemorrhoids. The trouble with them — apart from all the other, more obvious troubles — is that the best, most tasteless jokes have already been told. I won’t even try.

The day I learned I was afflicted, I had no idea what was going on back there. All I knew was that I was shedding blood and panicking about it.

My doctor was on vacation but her stand-in said she could see me right away and was disquietingly calm in the face (so to speak) of my terror.

“Relax,” she said. “It’s not a hemorrhage, it’s hemorrhoids. Lots of guys your age get them. And you all overreact.” “But I’m bleeding!” I shrieked. “It’ll stop,” she said. “Are you in pain?” I had to admit I wasn’t. “Then be happy. Some people get a lot of pain with hemorrhoids. Trust me, the treatment for that is not pleasant.”

I’d warned my boss he might never see me again because I was pretty sure I was terminal. I went back to work and told him it seemed likely I would survive a little longer.

“Long enough to finish the story you’re working on?” he said. “After that you can live, die or take the rest of the day off. I don’t much care.”

I consoled myself with the thought that sooner or later he’d be similarly afflicted and I could show an equal level of compassion. I’m still waiting. Neither of us is on staff at the Star anymore and — go figure — he doesn’t email me daily health updates: “Well, it’s finally happened . . .”

I had lunch with a friend who seemed sympathetic. Over coffee, she searched for a fitting cliché to comfort me. “It’ll all come out in the wash,” she said.

Given that I do the laundry in my house, it wasn’t the most tactful response. Her cruel snicker didn’t help, either. Nor the fact that she was right. And it’s gone downhill from there. When I had an MRI scan followed by a prostate biopsy, I needed a selfservice cleanout kit for each.

I asked for them at the drugstore as discreetly as I could. The pharmacist stared: “TWO enemas?” he bellowed.

No, no, you misheard me. I said two ballpoints, two combs and a couple of fake tattoos. And then could I speak to one of your female colleagues? billtaylor2@me.com