Time to speak freely about the H word

“How are the Hs?” my dad asked with my mom chuckling in the background. 

It took me a moment to understand what he was referring to. 

Mom interjected: “It’s code word for–”  

But I knew before she had finished. “Oh, yeah,” I mumbled like an embarrassed teenager. 

Then came a flashback of a commercial from when I was young: A middle-aged grey-haired man talking about itching and swelling, and that there was relief out there. The relief was called Preparation H.  

I never understood what the “H” meant until much later. I didn’t even know I had them until I was in my late 30s. It seemed even my doctors were hesitant to touch the matter (no pun intended). 

After visiting my family doctor, I got referred to a specialist, who punted me off to another specialist. I ended up getting a colonoscopy, which although beneficial and delightful, did nothing to relieve the H issue. 

At my follow-up meeting, the alleged H doctor told me to eat more fibre, and that was that. Now flax and bran are all good, but I challenge any man to consume the recommended 37 grams of fibre a day. There are only so many beans and lentils one’s body can endure, and while it may do wonders for the system, it did nothing for the Hs. In fact, they thrived on fibre. I could go into details, but I’m not quite at that comfort level (maybe when I’m 50). 

In the end, it made me wonder if the medical establishment even has a clue. For all its miraculous advancements in cancer therapies, 21st century medicine has done little, if nothing, for H sufferers. 

After my second colonoscopy (again, a wonderful experience, namely because of the Fentanyl), I returned to the first specialist who had referred me to the alleged H doctor. After describing my issue again, he looked at me sullenly from behind his desk, as though he were questioning why he ever took this job. “So... three years ago I referred you to [the alleged H doctor]... and he did nothing for the Hs?” 

I shook my head. “Nothing. He gave me two colonoscopies. He said to eat more fibre.” 

“Mm-hmm... So did it work?” 

I explained my high-fibre regimen that was pushing my regularity to the limits.  

“Hmmm.” He looked down at a sheet of blank paper, as if this was the first case of Hs he’d ever treated. Finally he looked up and smiled. “We can do a procedure that might help.” 

The procedure, called banding, was touted as a relatively painless means to choke the life out of Hs. The five-minute procedure required no cutting or snipping, but a little squeezing. Actually, a lot of squeezing, which is okay for the first 30 minutes, but let me tell you, the pressure builds. I later learned that two to three days of bed rest was not uncommon. The worst part was – it didn't work. I could go into details, but I'm sure you're not at that comfort level.

In the end, and there is an end to this (no pun intended), it all came back to my dear family doctor. In all honesty, he’s the most caring doctor I’ve ever had. 

He too was baffled by my mysterious case of Hs. But after scratching his head for a minute, he prescribed me something simple – something I’d heard of before...  

As it turned out, the middle-aged grey-haired man actually knew what he was talking about. 

Just like him, 30 years later, I found relief.