Between Us: The Self-Administered Enema

I interrupt normal scheduled service, where I was to talk about my pitifully flimsy wrists and wonky knees and all the sensible things I’ve been doing to fix them, to tell you about a new and exciting activity I was obliged to experience this week: the self-administered enema.

I know what you’re thinking: too much information! I’ll never be able to look at you the same way again! That’s OK. I’ve not been able to look at myself in the same way for over a decade now.

Now I don’t know whether you’ve ever had to self-administer an enema (it’s not the kind of question you tend to ask during polite conversation): a bit of cursory research on Instagram leads me to believe that for many hospitals and clinics it is something that is often done “in house”.

Indeed, this was not my first rodeo at the enema show: I’d had one about fifteen years ago before a colonoscopy at Whipps Cross hospital in East London. No sedation, no painkillers and an enema administered by a nurse with the biceps of a heavyweight champion and a touch so far from gentle that I struggled to walk straight for a week.

But at least Nurse Iron Grip removed an unfamiliar, slightly stressful step from what was already an unfamiliar and stressful day: having to do a home enema, which seemed rife with the possibility of serious misstep and/or death, had me feeling emotionally drained before I’d even reached the hospital.