As I sit on the couch on yet another sleepless night, you may well wonder what it is this time. Too many beings in my bed? Drugs? Not enough drugs?
Nope, I have to poop. Only I don't.
It's in there, patiently waiting, but not giving me the remotest suggestion that it is at all interested in coming OUT.
I've been eating salads for days and drinking massive amounts of water, tea, coffee, coke, and tonight took two Dulcolax and a hot shower.
Granted, if you are still reading, you have not been scared away...so continue at your own risk. It won't be too graphic, just a short history into my bowels.
During Christmas break of 1994, I was engaged (ridiculous! I was 18!) and my fiance and I drove from our college town to my hometown to his hometown and back to the college town. Since it was the holidays, we also ate a lot of garbage and did a lot of sitting around.
Soon, I realized that it had been about two weeks since I had, erm, emptied. True, most people grow up going once a day or so (at least), but I didn't ever have anyone pull me aside in kindergarten and say "One plus one is two, I poop daily, so should you!"
Two weeks was then three and I was obviously eating less, and getting a bit sluggish. I tried store-bought enemas (couldn't figure them out, frankly) and drank a heap of prune juice, and nothing helped.
Soon I was unable to stand up straight and in constant pain, finally my cousins drove me to the hospital for a "real" enema, which I only accepted because they called and got my mom on the phone, she being the only one that could convince me it was for the best.
For those of you fortunate enough to have never HAD a hospital-inflicted enema, IT IS HELL. I have managed to survive to adulthood despite being quite accident-prone, and despite all the hard objects I managed to meet with my skull, surviving a bunch of hot water up the bum surpasses them all.
And they tell you it's "warm water." They are LYING. It may be warm to them, but when it hits your 98.6 insides that water is enough to make you clench everything up even more. Furthermore they instruct you to "hold in" the ticking time bomb as long as possible.
As long as possible was about the time it took me to get from the gurney to the bathroom, and I was done.
They wanted to subject me to an encore and I politely declined. I was taken back home and put to bed and slept for about 14 hours.
Two days later I started to regain an appetite, which was good since I was down to about 105 lbs (at my height of 5'8"). I joined a friend at her grandparents house for lunch on a saturday afternoon and the only thing I recall that was on the menu was garbanzo beans. Oh, I know there were other things to eat, and I ate them, but the chickpeas are what burned into my memory.
That night I started feeling nauseous. And a bit, ah, "rumbly in the tumbly." I spent the next two hours on the toilet with my head in a trash can emptying out everything that was left in my poor body.
Back to the ER I went, a mere two days since my other issue, and was given a needle about 8 inches long into my buttock with drugs that were supposed to stop both problems.
By the end of that experience I was down to 98 lbs.
In the 14 years since, I have no pride when it comes to poop. I can and will poop anytime, anywhere. I try to not bring it up at dinner, or say, a wedding, but if I gotta go, I will excuse myself from the festivities and take care of business.
So yeah, a few paragraphs about poop.
I was inspired when I cleaned up after Stinkerbell this morning. If only my guts would be so inspired...