“Ok I need to see it. Would you like your mother to leave the room?”
Yeah, no shit.
“I’ll leave, Isaac”
I’m alone with the doctor. I’m seventeen, still have a fair amount of acne, am not horribly good at talking to girls yet, and have throbbing pain coming from my ass.
I stripped from the waist down and I laid face down on the table, bare ass exposed to the world.
The doctor squeezed and pressed my butt cheeks as I laid there screaming and wallowing in pain.
“So that hurts, Isaac?”
Oh, should I scream louder?
“So it hurts when I press against it like that?”
I start crying.
“Yup, just what I thought. Pilonidal Cyst.”
Here’s all you need to know about a Pilonidal Cyst:
- It’s located on your tailbone.
- It hurts like hell.
- It’s genetic. My mother had one when she was in college and she so kindly passed it along to me.
- My mom said it hurt worse than childbirth.
- It’s disgusting.
- Look up the rest on WedMD.
The doctor prescribed me with an antibiotic which made the PHYSICAL pain go away temporarily. The mental pain, however, was still very present.
Prescription: I would have to wear maxi pads.
(If you need to know why my cyst required a maxi pad, do your own research.)
I thought, maybe it won’t be that bad. Maybe there’s some cool maxi pads for men with Lebron James on the cover of the box.
“Maxi pads helps me be more agile on the court…
*Dunks a basketball*
…..I’ll never play another game without them. Maxi Pads for men!”
The torment a teenager would face would be far too substantial if anyone ever found out. I decided that if anyone asked, I’d tell them it was on my lower back so they wouldn’t create a mental image of my cysted butt. Only my family would ever know about what I wore between my legs. Which was fine. Most of the time.
“Isaac, need anything from the store? Milk? Bread? A tampon?”
My own beautiful mother had thrown out the biggest diss I’d ever heard.
A few months later I met with a surgeon who said I could get it removed immediately, but I wouldn’t be able to play sports for three months. I decided to push it off because wearing a maxi pad for the foreseeable future somehow sounded better than giving up part of my senior year of athletics.
Throughout the school year, the cyst gets infected three more times which means three more loads of antibiotics and countless more boxes of maxi pads (as well as a few more jabs from my not-to-be-trusted mother).
Nine months after I first was introduced to my butt pimple, I finally got it removed. Now I’m not meaning to brag, but my surgeon (who specializes in removing pilonidal cysts) said it was the BIGGEST ONE HE HAD EVER SEEN IN HIS LIFE.
The physical pain was now completely gone. The mental pain somehow got substantially worse…
New Prescription: Jumbo supreme maxi pads—the kind only elderly people who can’t control their bladder anymore wear.
For ages eighty-five years or older AND high school boys looking to drastically lower their self esteem.
After a few weeks, I could honestly say that I was actually getting used to my new life wearing feminine products and even had a preference when it came to brand (Kotex).
It was now summer and some friends and I visited our friend Ryan, who was working at Camp Roger. It was a nice day so we decided to hop into a canoe and paddle to the middle of the lake. Just before we set out, Ryan smirked and said “Isaac, you better keep your phone on the shore.” I had no idea what these ominous words foretold.
“Ah nice guy that Ryan, making sure I don’t drop my phone in the water!”
We paddled to the middle of the lake and Ryan’s oar goes soaring over my head. I turn around to see Ryan smiling, gripping both ends of our canoe.
“NOOOOOOO”
He sways the canoe from side to side and before I know it, I’m fully submerged in lake water. I don’t even think about the now-damaged camera in my pocket. All I’m focused on is the fact that all the water in Lake Bostwick is slowly being absorbed by the mini-diaper I’m wearing, turning it into a wet burrito. As I swam back to shore panicked, I wondered how I was going to recover from such a disaster. Would everyone be able to see this huge lump in my shorts?
I got out of the water and immediately hide behind the lifeguard station, patting my bottom to find an incredibly heavy sack of lake water to deal with—now the size of a third butt cheek.
To make matters worse, the adhesive was becoming weaker and my precious Jumbo Pad was now slipping down my thigh. I held it there, doing my best to casually play it off until we all sat down in the cafeteria to dry off and hang out for a bit. No one noticed a thing. I don’t know how.
As we sat there, I feel something dripping down my leg and onto the floor. I look down in horror. The pad had opened up and its mush was oozing out everywhere.
“RYAN WHERE’S THE BATHROOM!?!”
“Alllllll the way downstairs.”
I jump up and mush goes everywhere. I look to see if anyone notices. No one does.
It’s now halfway out of my shorts and I’m gripping it as tightly as I can, limping as I walk across the cafeteria to the steps that lead downstairs. Every step I take, I can feel the pad squelching against my leg. I keep looking back to see if anyone notices me and the trail of mush I’m leaving behind. By some miracle of God, all their eyes are focused elsewhere.
I get downstairs and immediately take the soggy nuisance out of my shorts. I’m holding it my hands, far away from my body like Rafiki held Simba off of Pride Rock, except imagine if Rafiki thought Simba was disgusting and wanted to punt him over the edge. I’m pissed at my pad—as if it weren’t supposed to let me down like this.
I look around for a trashcan. Can’t find a thing.
I see an employee, hide the pad behind my back, say hello like there isn’t a nasty oozing man pad in my hand and keep walking.
I search for five whole minutes. Not to rag on Camp Roger or anything. They’re a fantastic camp, but they put little thought into getting rid of engorged jumbo maxi pads easily.
Now desperate, I open up a utilities closet, take a glance behind me to make sure the coast is clear, and chuck it.
SPLAT!!
It slides down the wall.
I quickly shut the door and go back upstairs to my friends. Disaster avoided. I guess.
Three months go by and I’m ready to head off to college. I’m proud of myself because I casually worked my way back down to a simple panty liner style pad, which meant my incision was nearing the fully-healed stage.
I pack about twenty or so into my suitcase, take off and unpack them into the VERY BOTTOM of my dresser in my dorm room.
Still insecure, I think to myself, “What kind of girl would wanna date a guy in college who wore pads? Or maybe she’ll find it cute and see it as something we have in common.”
I wore pads for three days in college. I got rid of the rest, never to be worn by me ever again. Who knows, though.
