Experience told me at least one tube would be a drain for the wound. To carry away any excess fluids or discharge from the internal aspects of surgery but there were two tubes too many. Three tubes came slinking out from under the sheet passing out of site over the edge of the bed to awaiting receptacles. One came from my left and two from my right. Lifting the sheet the two tubes together appeared from under my right thigh and having no idea of their purpose or where they were actually attached, I gave one a gentle tug. To my dismay and embarrassment it was attached to by dick. Old Willie Wonker had its very own stomach pump. Instantly I recalled other patient’s horror stories of excruciating pain as the catheter tube is slowly pulled out. Clearly not an experience to look forward to. Then I had a curious thought as to what would happen if I attained an erection with this tube in me. Not wishing to follow that line of thought I promptly distracted myself by investigating the second tube. With another gentle tug my previous embarrassment, if not totally forgotten, was dismissed as minuscule. Much to my stunned realization and humiliation I found the second tube outrageously went right up my arse. I cursed out load with the notion my dignity had been violated. That in my unconscious state, un- protested and un-negotiated some arse bandit had had his jollies.
Being little more than a knee jerk response to the offence encountered by my self esteem, these thoughts were obviously without reason and unfounded. Retrospectively I became thankful that if these humiliating and undignified attachments were necessary, at least I was spark out not having to feel the experience or face the inserters of hideous tubes as they went about their business.
Taking stock I had saved the best till last. It was time to face up to the outcome of my surgery. Time to familiarize myself with yet another scar and inspect the new internal plumbing along, with what I would later consider, a grotesque accessory.
The scar surprisingly was smaller than I had expected. The surgeon had, to his credit and with great care, opened me up as little as possible. The vertical incision was only six inches long. It started just slightly left above and ended not far below of my belly button, piercing its indentation. I was thankful that my total scar tally had only reached four feet now. The third tube, which was the wounds drain, came from my lower left abdomen just above the pelvis. Two inches left of my new scar this tube was partly obscured by the lower part of the pink coloured colostomy bag, which covered my brand new arse hole.
