May 26 2010 PHI v NYM Game 2. A Look Into Your Editor's Struggle

When I was 12 year old a fellow classmate of mine pulled the chair out from my ass as I was sitting down in Civics class. I landed hard on my tailbone and in the following weeks noticed a strange swelling at the base of my ass-crack. I talked to my parents about this new lump and was informed that Pilonidal cysts ran in my family. This is a cyst that forms on the end of your tailbone and is fed by bacteria that reaches the cyst through 3 tiny tracks in the skin. They look like pinholes in the skin. My parents actually met in the hospital as my mother and grandfather were having theirs removed. My dad got the brush from old mom but creeped a look at her hospital bracelet and memorized her address. He showed up at her door a few days later, much to my grandparent's chagrin having met John Jr on the day of her operation. Nevertheless, one year later I was born with their bullshit affliction. 

I went 9 years without any formal diagnosis or treatment but things seemed to be under control. It occasionally bled or seeped but that was nothing to be alarmed about, I could handle a leaky crack every now and again. But in the autumn of my 22nd year the pain and discomfort began to escalate. This shit was becoming too much for me to handle. I couldn't sit down properly or for very long, it bled like a motherfucker whenever I did. I decided to get it looked at and removed.

My operation was a quick procedure and an apparent success. Supposedly as I came to I asked my nurse to climb into bed with me. Even in my weakened state I was bird-dogging. Not like I could do much with a saddle-block. I was numb from the waste down for 6 hours post-op. That was a fucking nightmare, pissing with a numb dick and balls. I became belligerent and vocal about my discomfort with the nurses and was cordoned off in a separate recovery area but after it all I walked away a healthy man.

2 months later I felt a familiar swelling in that same area accompanied with a slight tearing of the scar tissue from my operation. "This can't fucking be..." I said to myself. Not fucking again. I went back to the quack fuck who cut my ass open and showed him my reoccurring stigmata. His simple smug reply was "yeah, this sometimes happens. I really can't do anything about it and your insurance won't cover another operation." I could have murdered his family. This cunt did a botch-job on me and now he's telling me I'm up the creek? It wasn't like it was years between flare-ups, it was 2 months, maybe even a few days short of 2 months. The original flares would happen once every 6 weeks prior to his stellar work. I can still see his wispy white hair and null expression.

So ever since 2003 things have worsened, so much that I can't go more than a few hours without going into the shitter to squeeze the bloody puss that would leak all over my jeans into a wad of toilet paper. It usually takes 2-3 squeezes at a time. This is necessary on average 8 times a day and is extremely painful. I also have to shave my lower back every few weeks and sporadically go on severe anti-biotics to bring down the ungodly swelling. Its fucking bullshit. 

This hurts me everyday and is an incredible imposition on my soul. The pain never ceases. This feeling of infuriating helplessness and self-disgust is nothing compared to how I felt after last night's Phillies game.

JSIII