I Had Butthole Reconstruction Surgery Because According To My Doctor, My Butthole “Was a Mess.”

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It’s me, Booty Betty, back for one last ride (I hope). You’ve all been with me from the beginning, when my aching anus threatened to swallow up the small hand of my proctologist. So, I figured I owed it to y’all to complete the trilogy and let you know that I had to have butthole reconstruction surgery. 

For those who are new to this adventure, I had an anal fissure. Basically my dinner repeatedly exited with such force that it tore me a new one and, unlike the stretch marks on my belly, my sphincter was not willing to make room.

Instead my butthole burned and bled and I had to stand through the last half of “Endgame” because sitting was absolute torture.

I finally saw a doctor, who saw a lot of me, and we came up with a game plan for my butthole reconstruction.

After months of rubbing my brown balloon knot with cream and enough CBD oil to fry up Cheech and Chong themselves, it was clear that I needed intervention to get better. Surgical intervention.

My proctologist explained to me that she would be performing a sphincterotomy along with the fissurectomy. I had to stifle my giggle when she said “sphincter.” But then went pale when she told me how she’d cut the muscle of my stinkwhistle to make it push in a way that allowed for healing.

Apparently everyone’s dung bunker works by squeezing as a ring, like how you swallow things. But she was going to cut my south mouth so that it squeezed open and shut like a clam.

Google told me this carried a chance of soiling myself when there was a sense of urgency. I was wondering more if she could throw in a few extra stitches to make leftovers come out in a star shape, like a Play-Doh factory.

Either way, my butthole was so swollen it could have passed for a Real Housewife’s lips so I was desperate for relief, even if that meant surgery.

Surgery that would have me face down and unconscious in a room full of strangers who were exploring the outback. Surgery that would have me under anesthesia, and therefore at risk of farting. Not just farting, but farting AT the room full of strangers who were elbow deep in my mud tunnel.

I once had to share a hotel room with my boss while away at a conference. As you already know about me, I tend to have a lot going on down there, and this time was no exception.

I’d been holding in a fart for over an hour. Seriously, an hour. I couldn’t go in the hall and release, because then everyone would hear it. I’d already showered so I couldn’t go turn on the loud bath water in an attempt to cover up the sound.

I just laid there in bed, hoping she’d have to leave for one reason or another, praying she’d fall asleep before me so that I could slowly relax.

Instead, I fell asleep. Which relaxed the muscles I’d been clenching. And erupted in a comically loud thunder blunder that not only woke me back up, but was definitely heard by my boss anyway.

So I know what I’m capable of when I drop the charade and loosen my hold.

I also began to actually worry about how it would look afterward.

I’m ambivalent toward plastic surgery. But suddenly became surprisingly emotional about my stink flinger being forever tainted (teehee).

If my brown eye ever met another human eye, would they be able to tell that I’d had work done? Would it be like an episode of SVU where the medical examiner identified me by my surgically-enhanced crop circle? Would it be wrinkle-free and obvious?

After all, how do I know if my surgeon is any good? There aren’t before and after photos on the website. And how does one determine if anal reconstruction has been well done? What kind of artist was she — DaVinci or Picasso?

Whatever my fears were, I was not prepared for what happened next.

My proctologist showed me a cupcake that had been decorated to look like an anal fissure — yes, really — and ASSured me that it was a quick 5-minute procedure that would allow me to heal quietly. No need to even tell anyone I’d had anything done.

I woke up hours later and was informed that my 5-minute procedure had turned into a 3-hour total repair, restoration, and remodel. I had butthole reconstruction surgery.

“Girl, your butthole was a MESS,” were the exact words my celebrated surgeon used.

Once under anesthesia and in a position that porn stars haven’t even discovered, it was revealed that I didn’t have a fissure — I had two. And surrounding those fissures were three massive hemorrhoids — one for each child. The hemorrhoids were so engorged and angry they kept rubbing against the fissures, preventing them from healing.

Just an aching orgy of agony, so inflamed that nothing could get through without causing more damage.

I had to have three bulbous veins removed from my poo poo dimple and two cavernous wounds cut out. All so it could be sewn cleanly back together in what I refer to as the poop cute boogie. A delicate dance that required literally cutting out my existing butthole and creating a brand new one from what remained.

And it hurt.

“It feels like my butt had a c-section!” I cried, unable to lie comfortably on the hospital bed.

My 5-minute procedure had become an intense and involved surgery that now called for at least 6-8 weeks of recovery. And a common side effect of pain medication is that it constipates you. Something that cannot be allowed for a patient with a brand-new butthole barely held together by stitches and love.

Six-eight weeks of recovery, of painful sneezes, terrifying farts that threatened to undo all the hard work, delicate dabbing wipes, and awkward half-answers that hinted I was recovering from something without explaining the full truth to anyone I’d have to make eye contact with ever again.

Now here we are, healed and new. Butthole reconstruction surgery was a success. 

I’ve named my chocolate cheerio “Tori Smelling.” Not just because of all the surgery that’s changed her looks, but because she’s also had to deal with a lot of crap.

Tori and I have made amends and are working together beautifully. She’s a bit overdone, I admit, so I’m still double-fisting stool softeners. But I remain absolutely thrilled with the results.

Well, mostly thrilled.

There is one drawback to the complete renovation I underwent, and I’m sure it’s something you’re all wondering about:

Yes, my farts sound different now.

We all know when you let air out of a balloon, the sound changes if you tighten up the exit hole. Tori Smelling is no exception. I now have the anus of a young teenager. So you can tell by my high-pitched farts that I’ve had work done.

Like a shorter organ pipe, my butthole now sings soprano.

I miss the relaxing release of a wide-mouthed morning fart, the kind that feels like yoga for your anus. But in the end (teehee), I’m sure it was worth the trade-off.

The moral of the story at the end of this painful, illuminating trilogy is to eat plenty of fiber, drink lots of water, and be as mindful of your butthole as you are your face. If you’ve got a skincare routine, don’t forget the wrinkled starfish that doesn’t smile back in the mirror.

The areas between cheeks on your body are not equally elastic, so take care.

You only get one butthole in this life.

Unless, of course, you have to get one completely rebuilt from scratch, but you know what I mean.

 

 

 

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