It's amazing how many diagnoses can be made simply by sticking a finger up someone's ass. Before medical school it seemed that this invasive action was only capable of diagnosing the absence or the presence of an ass hole.
Hemorrhoids, fissures, rectal masses, stool impaction, prostate tumors, prostate enlargement, appendicitis, etc ... simply by sticking a digit where the sun don't shine.
Unless you had an interesting childhood, this was not the type of thing that came naturally. So we had to learn how to do a proper rectal exam. And unlike inserting intravenous lines and listening to the heart and lungs ... we were not going to learn on each other. Thank God.
Our medical school decided to hire professional models for this part of our education. Our collective trepidation became collective confusion when we were introduced to our subjects for the day.
It may be more accurate to state that the models were indeed "professionals." Male ones. And this medical school thing ... well, it was just a side gig without being a "pain in the ass" (as told to us with a wink from one of the men).
Before learning the proper way to perform a rectal exam, we were going to spend the morning practicing the dreaded testicular and hernia exams.
So between 8 am and noon that day, after a brief disinterested demonstration by a senior faculty member, we took turns crouching in front of our male subjects, palpating each testicle and then inserting one finger up their scrotums into their inguinal canals before asking each one to "turn your head and cough."
As uncomfortable as the morning started, we later felt at ease as we settled into the exam routine.
Turn your head and cough.
Turn your head and cough.
Over and over again.
After lunch, we returned to the exam rooms where we were going to practice the rectal exam. Again after our professor demonstrated the technique - have the patient bend over the exam table, sit in a chair behind the patient and gently insert a gloved, lubricated finger into the rectum - we got to work.
Giovanni was my first "patient". After he dropped his drawers and bent over the exam table, I pulled my stool up behind him, my face as close to another man's ass as it had ever been.
I slipped in my finger as gently as I could, palpating the surface of his prostate.
"Good job," Giovanni cooed. "You have a nice touch."
Feeling more comfortable with his encouragement, I became complacent and said what I was trained to say earlier that morning.
Turn your head and cough.
So he did.
With my face only inches away, he coughed...and he farted
He farted aggressively.
With my finger in his ass pushing down on his prostate, there was unobstructed airflow directly from his lower intestines, and the force of his flatulence was strong enough to blow my hair back and sprinkle my forehead with a warm, dew-like mist.
There are very few times in my life when I have stood up in protest and defiance of an act. This was one of them. And I did so with the level-headed polite anger reminiscent of late 19th century gentlemen decrying "Good day, sir !!"
My voice quavering, I turned to my professor and said "I'm leaving." He remained characteristically indifferent, waving me off as he continued to read his journal.
Ripping off my latex gloves, I stormed out of the exam room - leaving behind the laughter of my classmates and the aroma of feces. I grabbed a handful of alcohol pads and scrubbed my face as I rushed to catch a subway ride home where - hopefully - an empty shower and a bar of soap would be waiting.
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