I’m 22 years old, and this is my story as of yet: It was nearly eleven months ago when I first noticed the bump. I was laying down on my couch in New York, watching television, when I felt a strange, dull, pain directly on my coccyx; so I stood up, and checked the area with my hand, finding there to be a lump the size of a pimple. I thought nothing of it.
Not until a month later did I actually realize that something sinister was to occur. I had always known that my crack had an extra hole, and that most of the people I knew, if Id asked, responded that they didn’t have the same thing. I never knew what it was called (Pilonidal Opening). Two months later, myself and my fiancee (now wife), decided to leave the east coast, and head west to California. Like the guy that I am, I ignored the issue, thinking naively “The body is an amazing machine, it’ll just figure out how to deal with whatever that is.”
When we reached Idaho, I had been driving for a decent amount of time, perhaps that’s why it started to feel more irritated than usual, however, I thought to myself “now’s as good a time as ever to tell my future spouse”, so I did. She was, initially, much more worried than myself. Halfway through our journey, I developed a fever, and the pain in my ass grew and grew. I still don’t know if the fever and the ass-pain are linked, but when you combine the two of them, I rocketed across the rest of the country to avoid having to be seated any longer. By the time we arrived in California, I had had enough, so I immediately contacted a dermatologist, which made sense to me because it was something on my skin.
Two weeks later, now mid-April, I saw the doctor. He was an idiot to say the least. At this point, the bump had began to swell, and became more than just an inconvenience. During my visit, he asked if, perhaps, I would like him to lance the bump. He hadn’t once mentioned anything about a cyst; or that if he did not, that day, lance it, there was the possibility that it could soon become incredibly infected and turn sharply worse than it had been. Of course when faced with the idea of a sharp object puncturing a hole near in my ass I abruptly said no. Well, this “doctor” didn’t exactly explain the consequences of either action, and now I know precisely which answer I would have given, given a second chance. He told me to see a general surgeon, and sent me on my way.
Not a week later, the area became inflamed. I hadn’t found a surgeon (on top of everything, having a New York insurance company in California makes everything a hell of a lot more difficult), and the bump was gradually increasing in size. A week after it had began to swell, I was in so much pain that I could barely move. The infection grew to the size of a golf ball, and the pressure was outstanding. In the morning I could move around, but by nightfall all I could manage to do was lie down and choke back tears as the immense pain consumed my every thought. I conveyed this sentiment to my grandfather, who lives within driving distance, and who, luckily for me, works at a hospital, at which time he told me to promptly go to the hospital.
Having waited as long as I could and not found a surgeon, I ran to the hospital in which he worked, and quickly had the abscess lanced and drained, and packed with about four feet of that cotton. I returned home, feeling nearly as good as new, but knowing that I still had quite a road ahead of me. My grandfather, through his connections, was able to find me a top surgeon, recommended by the elite surgical team with which he closely works over at Cedar-Sinai. On May 24th, a full two months after arriving in this state, I found myself lying on an operating table in Beverly Hills, in a surgical office that was nicer than anything I could ever hope to afford out of pocket. Therein I did undergo my first major surgery regarding the PC. This surgery was what this site considers an Excision with Primary Closure.
The surgery went well, the healing, however, did not. Three weeks after this initial operation, the wound began to exhibit signs of infection. What had become a closed wound began to break down, and reopen before my very eyes. The doctor told me that he had taken the whole of the cyst out, as identified by the lab, but there was a possibility that, if an infection recurred, there could be an infected tract still deep within the wound. He set me up with some antibiotics and an appointment to see if the problem would be taken care of.
Two weeks later I was sitting, once more, in his beautiful office, the wound, still unhappy as ever and gladly causing me increasing discomfort. He explained calmly that I would need to go through one more procedure in order to ensure that this issue would be closed. This operation, he explained, would take a little longer to heal than the last, but was a near surefire way to prevent recurrence of an infection. On August 5th, I then had, what this site considers, a Limberg flap type surgery performed. This, of course, left me with an open cavity which needed filling.
The surgery was painless enough, although upon waking I experienced pretty severe pain, though nothing compared to having a high-pressure infection. I also had the pleasure of finding myself attached to a tiny vacuum machine that gradually filled with blood, plasma, and chunks of things. The vacuum machine itself was painless, as long as it kept constant suction, however, when it came time to change the spong -¦ f’ that. Single most painful experience: have a sponge the size of a small lemon pulled out of an oval opening above your coccyx on minimal painkillers (1, 7.5mg hydrocodone). I wish this sensation upon no one. I will never forget that moment. Nevertheless, this routine needed to continue three times a week, though, luckily for me, after two and a half weeks the wound had fully healed. I took a great big sigh of relief, finally expecting to continue my life; find a job, continue college, start a family, the whole American dream, or something of the sort.
Two weeks later, a bump forms on the top of the scar tissue. Over the course of three days the bump, which had appearance of a pimple, grew in size ten-fold. The pimple was located at the base of the second operation’s scar (around the center of the first’s), and it had transformed from a one headed beast, to a two headed-mutant pimple, filled with white pus. Luckily for me, the scar tissue hadn’t become tough enough, allowing for several small holes to perforate the outside of the pimple, creating a release for the pressure which needed to be drained. I called the surgeon once more. He asked me questions about the level of pain, the drainage, and whatnot. We decided that we would hold off on making any rash decisions involving sharp instruments and my crack. I also confronted a doctor whose house I and my father were working on; he too said that as long as it was draining, there was no immediate threat. This doctor, who is in fact, a family practitioner, ran a culture to see what bacteria was precisely causing this infection, in the hopes that perhaps a heavy dose of antibiotics could provide a permanent fix.
It was at this point that it was discovered that I had a rare bacteria lurking inside the wound known as Actinomyces Israeli. Sitting was no party, and any time I attempted to have sex with my wife, it ended in failure, as the wound simply became way too sore. Once more I found myself in the emergency room; four months after my second major operation and now, for a second time, the wound was lanced and drained. Things were different though, now that I had the information about the rarity of the bacteria and possible cause of further infection. Instead of being sent home immediately, my surgeon had arranged it (as he is closely affiliated with the hospital) that I should stay for several days, have a fully battery of tests run, and be seen by an infectious disease specialist. The hospital’s test confirmed what the private doctor had already told me: I had a rare bacterium which needed to be treated with heavy intravenous antibiotics, luckily, only for a short period.
For four days I was on heavy doses of antibiotics, one of which gave me a terrible rash. Afterwards, I was sent home, with a cotton wad stuffed in the still draining wound, and a hand full of antibiotics to take, hoping that it could be the last of this terrible nightmare. After the hospital, I was visited by nurses each day for two weeks so that they may change the packing. By the time the packing couldn’t be stuffed in anymore, and the nurses gave me a clean bill of health, I was ecstatic to start being active once again. That was one week ago.
Not 48 hours after the last nurse’s visit, a bump formed directly beneath the hole which had closed. My wife noticed it, and calmly explained to me that there was a little bump and there was nothing to be worried about. I had a doctor’s appointment set for today, wherein he pulled apart my ass cheeks and inserted a cotton swab into a hole which I had not even the slightest idea of the existence of. That wasn’t pleasant. His words to me were “it appears you have a tiny infection, we may need to start you on at-home intravenous antibiotic treatment; you’ll also need to see the surgeon to decide whether he wants to take a biopsy of the lump, or excise it entirely for lab work.” Wonderful. I am still in this nightmare, and I feel for anyone going through similar circumstances. This disease is a b^%#@ and it sucks, horribly. I just want to start living again, without being confined to the couch, or low-impact exercises. If it weren’t for my wife, who I love more than anything, I wouldn’t be as positive as I am right now, and I may have given up entirely.
There must be an end to this madness, I just know I’ll find it soon.