This past week, we went to southern California to go to Disneyland. We went for two days, about 14 hours on our feet each day. The first day L did not want to go on many rides and Rob didn't feel well, and it was hot and more crowded than I thought it would be. The second day there was nothing Leila wouldn't go on, and it was super fun. It cost a couple hundred bucks for L to ease into things, but this is not what the title of this post is referring to.
What I am referring to in the title, the sacrifices that we make for these ankle biters, is not the endless days spent at theme parks, or the day-long car trips to get to these theme parks; I'm talking about hemorrhoids.
If you have ever been pregnant, you know that hemorrhoids are an almost inevitable byproduct of this most feminine state. Lucky is the woman who gives birth without having to deal with one of these little honeys. After I gave birth, that whole area burned like a mother-effer, but it was the hemorrhoid, not the other thing, that was giving me the most trouble. If you are one of the lucky people out there who has never experienced a hemorrhoid, via pregnancy or a diet devoid of fiber, allow me to 'splain: It feels like you have a triangular tortilla chip stuck in your corn hole (no maize pun intended.) TMI? Okay, moving on.
Normally, my little friend is very manageable and I spend very little time thinking about him (because you know something this irritating is male.) But for some reason, on this trip, my bowels were acting very strangely indeed, and that tortilla chip was extra salty. I hadn't brought any of my miracle witch hazel pads with me, since I hadn't anticipated any problems, but I spent a few days (yes, DAYS) debating whether to go to the local CVS and stock up.
Unfortunately, there is no CVS at Disneyland, and that was where I was when I just couldn't take it anymore. I was walking funny, and was very distracted and unhappy. So this is what I did. I started by making Rob ask a popcorn vendor where one might go for an embarrassing personal problem. He directed us to the first aid station, which is really like a little urgent care unit right behind Main Street. There were some girls getting bandaids for the blisters on their feet, and a mom holding a feverish toddler with an ear infection (I felt for that mom, too. In addition to her probable hemorrhoid, she had come all the way from Canada to sit in a hotel room with a cranky, sick baby.) And then there was me. I asked the nice lady behind the counter if she had any hemorrhoid medication. I died inside a little. She said, no, but she called some other place and they had some Preparation H. She directed me to a coffee shop further up Main Street. Why A coffee shop has this particular thing and the first aid station doesn't is beyond me.
So I went up to the coffee shop and asked if this was the Market House, and the nice Disney lady said yes, what could she help me find, and here's how it went:
Her: "Are you looking for something in particular?"
Me: "Its too embarrassing."
Me: "No, worse."
Her: "That time of the month?"
Me: "Even worse. I need some prprshun H."
Her: "Oh, sure, we have that!"
Bless that woman for being discreet and relaxed and not mocking me. I'm sure she mocked me later with her friends, but who can blame her? It was $11.91, and I had exactly $12. Thank God.
The nearest bathroom was between Frontierland and Adventureland, and that was where I was further humiliated, even though I was alone in a stall. By the time I stepped off the Jungle cruise a little while later, I was a new woman. Thank you, Disneyland, and you're welcome, Leila.
I would also like to take this opportunity to welcome the long-awaited and much exalted arrival of Little Reed, who hopefully did not leave any hemorrhoids behind, and who will bring tons of love and joy and trips to theme parks to his wonderful and deserving parents. Congratulations!