Further Confessions of a GP

‘Yes, Doctor, of course I wash it. I scrub it every morning and evening. Nothing I do makes any difference. I’m sure everyone can smell it: the woman who sits next to me at work, people sitting behind me on the bus. I just can’t go on like this any more.’

‘And it’s not a flatulence issue here? I mean, you don’t just need to cut down on the cabbage and beans?’

John looked at me as if I was a complete idiot. ‘No, Doctor! It smells all the time. Not because I fart or haven’t washed. Every minute of every hour of every day I can smell it and it stinks!’

I was at a bit of a loss. I had sent samples of his poo to the lab to be tested and ordered all sorts of blood tests. I even put my finger up his behind to make sure that there wasn’t some sort of anal tumour that was giving off the smell. The last time he was in I even tried a Google search of ‘smelly bum’, but other than getting a list of some very odd and unsavoury sites not appropriate for workplace internet browsing, I was still at a complete loss.

‘So has anyone else actually ever commented on the smell?’

‘No, but it’s not the sort of thing that you actually ask someone is it. “Can you smell my bum?” I’m sure they can all smell it but are just being too polite to say. I’ve not had a girlfriend for years because I’m terrified she’d just dump me because of it and then tag a photo of me as “smelly bum” on Facebook.’

Although John had seen me on numerous occasions about this problem, on each occasion I had simply ordered another test and sent him on his way. This time I had run out of tests and really I needed to do what I should have done the first time he came in.

‘John, I need to smell your bottom.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘If you really feel that your bum smells this bad, but only you have smelled it, you need me to smell it and tell you if this really is a problem or not.’

This is how I found myself in a scenario I never imagined I would have to face. Some of you may feel that doctors are overpaid and perhaps you’re right, but how many of you reading this have a job that involves placing your nose in the close vicinity of a naked man’s bottom? John was leaning over the couch with his trousers and pants around his ankles. He was holding apart his bum cheeks and as I kneeled down on the floor, I wondered how close I would actually have to place my nose to his anus to satisfactorily complete the examination. I was doing my very best to suppress my oversensitive gag reflex and feeling bitter that of all the doctors working at this practice, John had chosen to come to see me. As I got closer to John’s anus, I realised I was instinctively holding my breath, so had to consciously make an effort to open my nostrils and take a big whiff.

I was prepared for the worst but to my surprise, John’s bum smelled fine. It didn’t smell like spring meadows or an ocean breeze, but there was certainly not the horrendous reek that he had been describing. Having never actively smelled any other man’s behind, I was lacking a benchmark for comparison, but to my part relief and part annoyance, there was absolutely no reason why I needed to have my nostrils in such close proximity to his anus.

John was overjoyed when I told him his bum didn’t smell. He did need some convincing and at one point seemed to be suggesting that I check again, but fortunately he did eventually take my word for it. Having managed to belatedly resolve the dilemma of the phantom smelly-bum syndrome, I had two options: I could of course simply wave John on his way having cured him of his complaint, or I could take the professional and appropriate option, which was to sit John back down and delve deeply into his inner psyche, to try to establish what previous trauma had culminated in his long-lasting and deeply disturbing delusional paranoia about his bottom.

I thought about it for a millisecond…

‘Bye, John. Glad we’ve sorted this all out for you. All the best.’

As far as I’m concerned, smelling John’s bum was already beyond the call of duty that afternoon. His 10 minutes were up and the opportunity to explore his inner psyche would have to wait for another day.

Tarig II

It had been a few months since I had last seen Tarig and failed yet again to persuade him to agree to take HIV medication. Unexpectedly, I had a request to urgently phone his wife. I didn’t know Tarig’s wife well as she rarely came in to see me, but I often wondered what she made of his decision to not treat his HIV. She herself had tested negative to the disease and had, on the surface at least, stuck loyally by her husband’s side. She must have known that his decision not to have treatment was effectively a choice to commit suicide.

‘Doctor, please come. Tarig is confused and unwell.’

As I arrived, his wife greeted me at the door.

‘Doctor, please don’t mention the HIV in front of the children. They don’t know,’ she whispered.