Dear Hemorrhoid,

I hate you. I really do. You make all the fun things in life decidedly less so. For example, sitting down. I used to take that for granted, but now I have to brace myself whenever I go in for a landing. You distract me from all that is good and force me to focus on all that is not. In case you weren’t sure, I do not want to think about my backside every second of the day, and yet it appears now that I have no choice.

Of course, we’ve waged this war before, you and I. We first met when I was pregnant with Abby. I was sure you were a tumor, and in a sense you were. (I think you may even be trying to steal this baby’s blood supply.) I had hoped then that you would retreat forever – a one-time thing, I thought – but there you were again, when Asher was on board.

This time around, I knew you were coming, Hemorrhoid, so I prepared my defences. My armor was fashioned of almonds and roughage; the ramparts I raised were built of dried apricots and Colace; the moats I dug were filled with prune juice and Metamucil. Still, they were no match for you and your newfound ally, Anemia.

Now that I take enough iron every day to anchor a cruise ship, I suppose you are here to stay for a while. There is not much for me to do but surrender. Surrender... and pray that you shrivel up and die.

With great enmity and contempt,

Jackie Rose