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Poop - or - not poop?

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That is the question since the annual checkup with my doctor yesterday. I had entered the office with a list of concerns, namely: what can I do to help me digest food? But I did not get the answers I wanted.

"Well, let's see," she replied, feeling my stomach with her hands. Normally this routine does not result in much, aside from the recollection that wearing little robes in doctors' offices is somewhat humiliating. This time, however, this wasn't the case.

"Huh." She muttered, moving her hands with a look of confusion. "Interesting," she continued, without elaboration. I sat there waiting for an explanation, but all I got was more rubbing and furrowed brows. Finally, she asked a question.

"Are you constipated!?"

"Um..." I wasn't sure what to say, I had just told her that my digestive system was a little finicky. "I dunno."

Suddenly, my regular checkup transformed into a whirlwind of poking, prodding, injecting, and drawing of bodily fluids. It was explained to me that there was a lump in my abdomen and it was either "cancer or poo."

Thanks for narrowing that down. (They are testing for both.)

So the nature of the situation suggests that dry, lumpy poop is stubbornly refusing to exit my body. But this doesn't prevent me from worrying about it constantly. The lump in my abdomen now hurts because I have been rubbing it so much, ceaselessly checking and re-checking for its presence. And the pain makes me even more worried, since, cancer is deadly so it must hurt, right?, thus awarding me certain, self-induced cancer-through-paranoia.  ¶ 9:51 PM 2 comments