While enduring a bladder infection a few years ago, I freaked when I noticed I was bleeding like hell when I peed. The infection went away, but not the bleeding. I went to one urgent care clinic twice. They verified it was blood in there -- one doctor said it looked like I was passing Hawaiian Punch -- and decided it had to be a kidney stone that was scraping everything up.
I thought this was strange. I've known people with kidney stones, and they're not quiet -- they're usually screaming in agony. I had no pain whatsoever. But they were the doctors, and stupid me decided to trust them when they sent me for a pyelogram. I was to be injected with radioactive goop to make my kidneys, urethra, and bladder glow so they could see what's what.
The night before the procedure, I went up to the hospital to get supplies. You see, before they do these sort of tests, you must take laxatives and spend the evening on the toilet blowing prehistoric things out of your bowels so you can go into Radiology totally cleaned out and ready to go.
I was carefully instructed what to do. They gave me a packet of stuff to mix with water and chug. I was told to be at home, near the bathroom at all times, because this was a pretty strong ass-blaster. In the unlikely event the powder didn't work they also gave me two little pills to take, along with the same advice on staying near a toilet, because the pills were apparently even more like Drano to your pipes.
I went home, mixed the powder in water, and drank. And waited. And waited. I had been told it should hit within 30-60 minutes. After hour three, I cautiously swallowed the first pill. Nothing. Three hours later, I took the second pill. Again, nothing. I had eaten well that day -- nothing that would clog me up -- but I still couldn't shit for the life of me. No urge or nothing. I went to sleep, expecting to be woken by my own personal Bhopal disaster requiring immediate evacuation. I slept for six hours. When I woke up, I still didn't need to poo.
By this point, I was nervous as hell. Maybe I just don't react to the meds. I've never taken laxatives before. I waited for a friend to come pick me up and take me to the hospital for the exam.
I tried to go to the bathroom in the hospital, sure that the staff would yell at me if I didn't report a satisfactory shit before the test. Nothing. My butt had never been so empty in my life. I told the radiologist, and she said, "Oh, well, whatever."
Finally I was hooked up on the table, and the first giant syringe of radioactive dye was shot in my arm. It went immediately to my bladder. All of a sudden, I had to pee. I started squirming, and the staff started bitching me out. A second Pringles-can-sized syringe was pumped into my veins. I now had to puke like never before. I begged them to let me get up and dash to the bathroom, but they said, "Only one more syringe, and five minutes of lying down, and you'll be done."
They emptied the third syringe into my bloodstream. I felt the curious sensation of something filling my bowels, as if they were opening up to something. Having grown up an Air Force brat who has eaten everything possible, I pride myself on my iron guts, and I've learned how to hold it in for five hundred miles until the next rest stop. But I didn't know how bad it could get.
And then it hit the bung, and I HAD to take a shit NOW. I was in the last minute of the test, and I was screaming by this point to unhook me or I would spray Love Canal all over the place. The last minute finished, and they yanked the IV out. I think I gained the ability to teleport just then, because suddenly I was on the toilet in my hospital gown, and everything that can come out of an orifice was, propulsively. I can't even say I was shitting, because that implies that one has some control over the process; my body had thrown the emergency override to my asshole, and it just opened like a burst dam. I couldn't clench or anything. I could only sit there and let it pour out while puking in the wastebasket.
At about the ten-minute mark, the faucet shut off, and I cautiously got up. I swear it looked like I had given birth to the LaBrea Tar Pits. Nothing solid; just liquid. I flushed, dressed, and shakily went out to meet my friend. He took one look at me and said, "You're not going home. You're staying with us for the day." I nodded wearily.
Well, lo and behold, my friend and his roommate decide they want to go to their bank. I said sure. Once we hit the highway, they told me their bank was about a hundred miles away. I still felt OK -- I mean, after ten minutes in the bathroom, what else could be left?
A lot.
About thirty miles into the trip, I had to grab a leftover shopping bag in the back seat and hurl some more; and of course my ass decided my mouth was lonely and needed some company. I shrieked at the guys to find a place to shit immediately. Luckily, one of my friends takes medication daily that sometimes has the exact ass-affect, so he knew I meant what I wanted.
We shot into a Texaco, and once again I found myself on the toilet, seemingly becoming a conduit of the city sewage system. After that was over, and after I proceeded to puke some more on my creation, I tried to flush. Nothing. Even though everything was liquid, nothing would go down. There's nothing more than I hate then a nasty public restroom, but there was nothing I could do. I cleaned off and found the store clerk, who was busy flirting with teenagers and annoyed at my interruption.
"You need to fix the toilet. It won't flush," I quavered.
"I'll get to it later," he sighed. He didn't understand that what was fermenting in there might possibly come out, rob the store and go on the rampage.
"It really needs to be done now. I was sick in there."
"Yeah, yeah, I heard you." He waved me off. Fine. He wants to deal with a radioactive blast from the ass after it's made the toilet glow green, I didn't care.
I spent the whole day puking and shitting; but no more sludge-fudge, just the normal everyday turds.
I almost killed my mother when I told her what happened, and she said, "I thought I warned you. I always react to the same stuff during and after tests." She was damn lucky she lived four thousand miles away.
The next day everything was normal, including my pyelogram. After some humiliating and painful tests (having water pumped into my bladder and a camera inserted is not my idea of a good time), it turned out that the problem was gynecological, caused by the withdrawal of a medication I had been taking, and was easily cured by The Pill. I swear I will never, ever take those pills and that powder again for anything. I'd rather lick a cactus.
-- Girl Coward
