Opinion: The things dads do for their kids

He said it so nonchalant like he was asking me if I wanted to go bowling or have dessert before the check.

“Would you like me to check your rectum?” the doctor asked.

The truth is I kind of wanted him to. He was the specialist and I was there to figure out what that gut-numbing pain in my abdomen was exactly. I wanted an answer to the pain, at any cost. I just didn’t realize that I was going to have to make a request.

This is what we do as fathers. Ten years ago I would’ve said No and made for the door like retail thief. Wait, ten years ago I never would have even been in the office. I would have allowed the pain to disappear then I would have ordered shots for the entire bar.

But I am a father now of four children who rely on me to stay in tact. I can no longer afford to deny my body’s symptoms. I have to take care of myself and agree to the most humiliating of processes.

“Would you like me to check your rectum?”

Now it was up to me to figure out the proper response to this question. I wouldn’t exactly say that I would like it, per se. How do you answer that question without coming across too willing? I felt like I was in high school again with a girl in the other room of a party and we were playing would you like to.

* (← pun intended)
“Would you like me to check your rectum?”
Boy, would I!
*
“Would you like me to check your rectum?”
You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say those words.
*
“Would you like me to check your rectum?”
YES! YES! YES! THAT WOULD BE RECTUMTASTIC!
*
“Would you like me to check your rectum?”
Only if you really, really want to.
*
“Would you like me to check your rectum?”
Not, really. Why, would you like me to check your rectum?
*
I don’t remember exactly how I responded, but I do know what he said next. “Pull your pants down to your knees, sit in the fetal position on you left and face the wall. I’ll be right back in.”

I did what the good doctor instructed and waited for him to return to the room….And prayed a little.

I was curious why he left the room in the first place. I don’t know, perhaps he needed a running start. Perhaps he was getting his camera or his friends or a carful of clowns to witness my humiliation. Perhaps he’s going to get some candles and his Al Green record I’m Still in Love With You.

Or maybe he left the room to remove his glove. You know like that movie The Hand That Rocks the Cradle when Annabella Sciorra gets molested by her obstetrician then tells the authorities on the doctor who then commits suicide leaving his widow Rebecca De Mornay to reek silent havoc on Sciorra and her family.

Oh my God, is Rebecca De Mornay going to try and breast feed newborn baby Max, or bully my retarded gardener!? Your mind can really wander when lying naked from the waste down facing a stone cold wall of a gastrointestinal specialist. Jesus Christ, what’s taking him so long?

Eventually he came back into the room. And he came back with a vengeance… and what felt like a Phillips-head screwdriver drill bit for his finger. All of the sudden it didn’t feel anything like high school anymore. There was no warming up grace period. There was no pillow talk leading up to the event. There was no playful tickling. Just business.

Did I do something to upset him?
*
A visit to the family doctor, blood work, an ultrasound, a visit to the G.I. specialist, an upper endoscopy, and a CT scan later I still have no idea what is the root cause for the pain in my gut.  But as a father I am compelled to continue the investigation. Whereas if I were younger I would’ve just quit the fight.

There’s a billboard on I-95 that I used to pass everyday on the way to work. It’s a picture of a dad and his son that oddly looks exactly like my Ethan. The caption reads, “He’s worth it.” This is an anti-alcohol message, but I revisit this general message in my mind whenever I’m about to cause more bodily harm to myself.

Whether it’s a red-blooded cheeseburger to raise my cholesterol to a new high score, or an extra glass of wine to inch my liver closer to the white flag, or the urge to buy myself a midlife motorcycle which I would certainly slide into oncoming traffic. I pause and think of my children.

The point? My body no longer belongs solely to me. Fathers have a certain responsibility to their children. Above all, they need to stay alive. Basic, I know, but this notion has somewhat blindsided me recently.
*
So I sit and listen to my doctor assess my pain. When I’m though telling him my symptoms, when he’s through violating my spirit he only has one thing to say.
“Well, that’s quite a story,” the doctor suggests. Which I took to mean sounds like you’re making that shit up just to get me to check your rectum.

Yeah, what a better way to spend seven-to-ten consecutive days off. The rectum exploration being the apex of my quest for humiliation. Other embarrassing moments to make the highlight reel include having my fat abdomen felt up by some subtle college grad; Describing the state of my stool to a roomful of fresh-faced medical students; Week-long IV bruises that make me look like  Keith Richards or an eighty-year-old lady.

But I will continue my search for health answers. Not because I love shame. But because I love my children. And for that, I will I will strip my pants to my knees any day.

And who knows? If I’m lucky it might just be gas. After all, that’s one thing that I have gotten better at since being a dad.