Rectum? Damn Near Killed ’Em

Dr. Singh, my colorectal surgeon, has very warm hands, which wouldn’t matter if those hands weren’t about to do what they were about to do.

You’d think one Dr. Singh with a turban would be enough in a person’s cancer narrative, but no, I hit the jackpot. One for the tumors, one for the tunnels. Same name, same turban, same voice that sounds like disappointment and chamomile. I asked if they were related. They laughed the same laugh. “No,” they said. Just a cosmic coincidence, like anal polyps or ex-boyfriends who become real estate agents.

This clinic—this poop palace—looks like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory lost its funding and got a colonoscopy. There are plush turds smiling like they know something about you that you don’t. Like they’ve seen the tape. There’s a piñata on the cabinet, a poop swirl with a straw poking out, like a frappuccino from hell. I’m staring at it while I try not to fart out of fear.

The nurse hands me a lavender paper sheet and says, “Drape yourself.” I drape. I drape with the shaky dignity of a woman whose dignity has already been dry-cleaned and burned.

And then—it’s time.

Dr. Singh says, “You’ll feel some pressure.”

I say, “Isn’t that what men always say?”

He blinks. I blink. My ass blinks. It’s a spiritual moment.

And then, reader—he enters.

Like a ghost. Like a burglar. Like someone trying to find a light switch in a very specific closet. And somewhere between my cervix and the Mariana Trench of my emotional repression, I ask:

“Can I still have anal sex if you remove the tumor?”

The question hangs there. Like a fart you tried to hold in but gave up halfway through a funeral.

He pauses. Time stops. The poop plushie on the cabinet leans in, curious.

“No one has ever asked me that before,” he says. He sounds less like a doctor and more like a man suddenly very aware he chose this path in life on purpose.

I tell him I’m saving my ass for marriage. I do. I say it like it’s a vow. Like I’m the Virgin Mary of backdoor mysteries. I say it like someone might put it on a mug in a Christian bookstore.

He does not respond.

He just… resumes.

And I lie there, legs akimbo, emotionally naked and physically prodded, thinking: This is the most intimate I’ve been with a man in two years. I should Venmo him.

A blog post by Rachel Smak on grief, loss, and lessons from stage 3C rectal cancer