There’s a Crater on My Butt, and It’s Beautiful

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Several months ago, I saw my rear end in the mirror and shrieked. A quarter-sized dimple marked the top of my posterior, and a small, hard lump anchored the center of the dent.

Mr. Wright did a fair job of not appearing completely disgusted. “Did you hurt yourself, somehow?” he asked. No, I hadn’t hurt myself. This was before roller derby, after all. Today, I end up with all sorts of mysterious body damage.

I tried to ignore the dent, but over the next several weeks it deepened, and grew to the size of a silver dollar. In the middle of a caffeine-fueled medical panic session, I Googled phrases like “dimpled skin” and “skin puckers.” All results pointed to cellulite, an unfortunate substance my body produces in abundance, but even cellulite dimple images looked like porcelain compared to my back end. (A few links turned up for breast cancer, but considering the location of the pucker, I ruled it out.)

By last week, I sported a crater the size of a tangerine. I limped into the walk-in clinic for a roller derby injury—which turned out to be not a metatarsal fracture, but significant soft tissue damage—and asked, “Hey, will you look at my butt, while I’m in here?”

The doctor—a kind, grandfatherly sort—suggested I make an appointment with my primary care physician and show that lucky doctor my booty. “I don’t have a primary care doc,” I whined. “I’m not hurt or sick often enough to need one. Please, just look… It’s been there almost a year, and it’s growing.” I burst into tears before the poor man could ask why I’d been living with a cave carving its way into my rump for almost a year without seeking medical attention.

He reluctantly agreed, and I dropped my drawers. “Well, now… That’s interesting,” he said, in a mediocre attempt to conceal his repulsion. “Have you had any shots in that area?”

“Of course not,” I said. “I hate needles. Unless, of course, you’re asking about the cheap shots my husband takes at my ever-sagging rear end.”

Did I mention Mr. Wright was with me? That man never passes up an opportunity to prove me wrong. “You did have a shot,” he corrected. “Remember when you almost died last year?”

Oh. That.

About a year ago, I was overcome by a 105-degree fever and intense pain in my upper left side. When I finally got in to see a doctor, it turned out to be bacteria pneumonia.

I don’t deal well with needles, but deal worse with phrases like “brain seizure.” When the doctor jammed a needle in my upper buttock to bring the fever down, I couldn’t protest. My fever, in fact, was so high I’d been quite delirious at the time and literally had no recollection of the poke.

The walk-in doc has a theory about my derriere divot. He thinks the shot triggered a reaction which dissolved the fat cells around the injection site, and as the fat dissipated, the crater grew. “So, how do I get it fixed?” I asked.

“The body,” the doctor said, “will typically begin generating new fat cells and filling in the area after a couple years. If it was my butt, I’d leave it alone, rather than opt for cosmetic surgery. But… I can understand how it might be distressing to a woman like you.”

I’m still not sure exactly what he meant by a woman like you, but it truly is distressing. I’m completely self-conscious, choosing loose layers of clothing and avoiding clingy dresses. And undressing in front of Mr. Wright? Forget about it.

These days, I make a point of encouraging women to feel and believe in their own beauty and sexiness, regardless of body type, features or blemishes—but I struggle with feeling beautiful, myself. Through tears, I confessed all this in the little medical room.

“Perhaps,” the doctor offered, “this is a wonderful opportunity to live by the very words you offer to others.”

So, my friends, I have a cavern in my caboose. Don’t expect a full-page image any time soon, but I’m not going to allow a cosmetic blemish hardly anyone sees deprive me of beautiful thoughts about my body. It’s a good body. It has created life, nourished a child, donated bone marrow, and somehow remains visually pleasing to my husband.

I think that’s beautiful. Don’t you?

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Somebody is Always Broken or Bleeding

Last night I cut my finger while slicing a loaf of bread. It’s not an unusual event. In fact, I fillet myself quite frequently. If Mr. Wright had his way, my kitchen tools would be pared down to rolling pins and spoons, though I frequently manage to find a way to injure myself with those, as well.

I quickly wrapped a paper towel around my bloody digit and set off in search of an adhesive bandage. An hour later, I gave up the search for the elusive bandage. The bleeding had pretty much stopped by then, anyway.

There are few things I can count on in my chaotic life, but there are two facts I’ve come to accept as the noble truths of The Gonzo Mama’s world. The first is that I’ll never find an adhesive bandage when I cut myself. The second is that if one of our kids is going to get hurt, it’s going to be on my watch.

Sure, there have been rare exceptions. Pockets was hit by a car in a crosswalk during a visit with my ex-husband. Curlytop was bit by a dog and Mr. Wright had to spend the night with her in the hospital while she received intravenous antibiotics while I was out of town making the cake for my friend’s 50th birthday party. The Dude cracked his collarbone while sledding with friends.

Still, the majority of the blood and busted bones occur when I’m the only adult in the house.

I have an almost pathological fear of blood and broken body parts. I was the first student in my school district to challenge the dissection requirement in sophomore Biology. At the time, I cited my vegetarian and animal rights principles, but the truth was much simpler. I just can’t stand the sight of blood, incisions or anatomical parts not being where they are supposed to be.

When Pepper executed a poorly-landed flip on the bars at the park and broke her nose, there was a lot of blood. I mean, slasher film amounts of blood; buckets of it. Somehow, I hadn’t properly planned for a broken nose when packing the car for our outing to the park. All I could offer poor Pepper en route to the emergency room was a handful of Taco Bell napkins and a very dirty beach towel.

Luckily for us – and those unfortunate enough to be traveling on the roads that day – I only had to drive about six blocks with the radio drowning out the sound of hysterical shrieking.

Pepper, however, stayed pretty calm.

When we burst through the doors of the ER, the staff responded in a rapid, practiced manner. “Let’s get that kid into the back for some x-rays, and for the love of God, give the mom a sedative!”

GirlWonder’s name might imply that she has superpowers. I’m not denying that she does. Flying just doesn’t happen to be one of them. When GirlWonder was seven, she fell out of the neighbors’ tree house, compound fracturing her arm. She ran home, holding her grotesquely disfigured arm in front of her. (Insert Sesame Street™ closing line: “Today’s arm is brought to you by the letter Z!”)

Something about broken bones triggers my gag reflex like nothing else. It’s hard to convince a child that everything is going to be okay when you’re alternately dry-heaving and screaming like a banshee.

The ER visit was short, and revealed that GirlWonder would need immediate surgery. The doctor summoned the anesthesiologist. “When you’re done with the mom,” the ER doc suggested, “why don’t you stick around and put the kid out for surgery?”

Curlytop has more nosebleeds than a boxer with a bad block, but the little dickens only gets them when Daddy is gone. I’m starting to develop a conspiracy theory.

The problem is, we never have minor injuries. If my family is going to get hurt, they’re going to warrant inhuman amounts of direct pressure, an emergency room visit, surgery, or all of the above. Why bother with adhesive bandages?

I would have received better results if I’d actually severed the finger. Clearly, it’s time to sharpen that bread knife.

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/scherre/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Sins of the Mother: When Animals Attack

I’m hanging all of my hopes for absolution on my daughter’s future career as a veterinarian. Perhaps, through Princess’s dedication to helping and saving animals, I will be forgiven by the animal kingdom for whatever sins I have committed in my previous lives.

I’ve always clung to the belief that animals know, instinctually, who is out to get them and who, conversely, is truly an animal lover that means them no harm. Why, then, has my life been littered with random attacks by wild and quasi-wild animals? I’m a vegan. I don’t eat animals. I try not to wear animals. I don’t steal their eggs, don’t subject them to naked humiliation by shaving them to spin their wool…

Obviously, in some previous incarnation, I was a hunter. Or a trapper. Or, simply, an animal hater.

How else to explain the unprovoked attack by a swan when I was three? That’s right – a swan. I was walking in the park with my mom and brother when a swan charged me and bit me. Perhaps my pre-vegan toddler breath smelled of chicken nuggets or eggs. Whatever the reason, the swan found my presence offensive and targeted me.

When I was five, I was attacked by a swarm of bees. In the bees’ defense, I did tromp over their home, but it was an accident that occurred during a rousing game of Follow the Leader through the woods near my friend’s house. She led, I followed… right over the top of a nest of bees. Her feet shook the bees up; mine angered them so thoroughly that they attacked, en masse, the little child attached to the intruding feet. The neighbors stripped my clothing down to my underwear to get the bees off while I screamed. My mother arrived in short order and, without access to a car, called the hospital instead of rushing me to the emergency room. She was told to pull the stingers out with tweezers (she stopped counting at 50), give me Tylenol, and watch for any alarming symptoms, such as a temperature over 105 degrees, paralysis, or death. Should any of those symptoms occur, she was to call 911 immediately. That’s right… if I died, she learned, someone should call 911.

At the age of six, I was bit by a ferret. Ferrets are interesting creatures in that they don’t bite and then let go. Instead, they bite and hold on, chewing the meat free. My six-year old screams were heard throughout the neighborhood, and the fingerprint of my right middle finger is permanently altered by a V-shaped scar through it.

In junior high, my face was scarred by Bambi. Not the real Bambi, of course, but a relative closely resembling the original friendly forest creature. Family friends had been feeding a little deer that visited their home, and I was fascinated by how tame he appeared. The sweet little guy was so cute, with his little budding antlers and big eyes. I fed him a carrot, and then wandered off to talk to my parents. Suddenly, I heard my name called, along with a loud “Look out!” warning. Alarmed, I turned around to see what the danger was, and found myself facing Bambi, reared up on his hind legs, hooves raised, ready to beat on my head. Instead, his hooves gouged down the middle of my face. As I raised my hands to my bloody face in pain and disbelief, someone explained to me that young male deer “play” with one another by beating each other on the heads with their hooves. How delightful.

Equally delightful was the experience of actually having to tell my friends at school that the deep, scabby trenches down my face were caused by the real-life version of a Disney character.

I fully expect, once Princess graduates from vet school and begins saving the animal world, whatever sins I’ve committed against nature will be fully atoned for. In my opinion, raising a veterinarian is a small price to pay for being able to walk out my front door without fear of being jumped by a gang of angry squirrels.