I, Hernia

Hello, I am Jaron’s Hernia and this is my story.

Hernia is Latin and made up of:  “Her” and “Nia.” “Her” is Jaron’s wife, Kate, and she brought me into existence by complaining that their condo was leaking.

This caused Jaron, clutching a hundred pound tub of tar, to scale their condo to patch cracks, the width of spider webs on their roof, in a hurricane.

As Jaron slipped and slid, he was nearly blown by high wind gusts to his death four stories below. This did not matter, what mattered was he was able to stop a skylight from dripping into a shower in the second bathroom of their condo during the midst of a hurricane.

Kate, who was having a bubble bath, was delighted that the leak abated and relieved that all that happened to Jaron was me, your friendly hernia.

Hernias, like me, cause pain. We won’t delve into deep medical explanations (many doctors read this column, no point in confusing them) — but let us say that I am a rambunctious inner tube in a weak tire.

If the tire has a vulnerable spot then a bit of the inner tube bulges out and gets pinched. If the inner tube could talk it would say “ouch” or in the original Latin, “Now I Ache.” (N.I.A. is the suffix of hernia.)

If your “inner tube” intestines get pinched, your guts often strangulate. (If this happens, you could die within the day, albeit in a dry condo.)

As Jaron’s Hernia, I sent him a subtle message to visit his doctor. Basically, when Jaron wiggled a certain way I was able to transfer that movement to his testicles.

This made him feel like a Clydesdale was waltzing on his acorns and Jaron, who until then had been very brave, screamed so loudly that he reopened cracks in the condo roof that will have to be re-tarred prior to the rainy season to keep Kate happy.

Jaron’s doctor could not find the telltale bulge in Jaron’s gut that would indicate his inner tube was sticking out. She sent him to a surgeon.

The new M.D. immediately seized Jaron’s testicles and coughed him and asked if he felt any pain. “No,” said Jaron. Having had perhaps a bad day in the stock market, the surgeon, upon further investigation, “discovered” that there were two of me. The doctor, eyeing a number seven scalpel, suggested a double hernia operation within the week.

I noticed this surgeon did not wear rubber gloves or wash his hands before or after he got hold of Jaron’s testicles and health insurance plan.

Jaron, terrified, visited another surgeon for a second opinion. After she coughed Jaron, she could only find one of me, probably since her office was not as plush as the first surgeon’s. She washed her hands before and after fiddling with Jaron’s testicles.

She told Jaron that it might be a good idea to wait several months to see how I, Mr. Hernia, behaved. Part of his pain might be a pulled muscle. Part might be psychosomatic as Jaron fits the profile of a coward, that is to say, anyone with the tiniest pain anywhere near his testicles.

Both surgeons said I was not going to get any better until Jaron’s outside tire was reinforced and sewn back together. (As a dedicated hernia I plan on getting bigger during the next rainy season. Maybe even strangulating. I like it when people in green scrub gowns yell “stat” because it’s fun to be the center of attention.)

As Jaron’s hernia I want you to know I’ve enjoyed talking to you. Here is a medical question to see if you have been paying attention. When I start to rip apart, big time, which surgeon do you think Jaron will crawl to?


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