My Dirty Little Secret
I wouldn’t call myself naive in the area of toilet matter. In fact, I feel I have become very open to what lies just between those two little butt cheeks of mine. Not to say it has always been that way. Some could say that the divorce from my first husband was because of his wandering tendencies; but if you ask me, I think it had more to do with the fact that when it came to duties in our home, doodie was just not something I could bring myself to do. I had this overwhelming fear that if he found out my dirty little secret he would no longer find me scrumptious. This is not to say I never went; oh, did I. I would wait ever so impatiently until he left just to have my relief. Eventually, I began to feel like James Bond – rolling around corners and inching past doorways just to keep out of sight. I was able to keep these secret missions on lockdown.
I imagine you’re asking, “So why chronically constipated?” The story has just begun, fellow poopers. With so many years of holding it for what seemed to be an eternity I fewer and fewer urges to go, and the longer I held it the less I needed to hide it. It wasn’t long before my flat stomach began to resemble something from a National Geographic special. Then set in the pain. To those of you that have had the pleasure of experiencing childbirth, you can understand. I went through this pain for about a week before I finally drew up enough courage to call…my mom. After about an hour of the repetitive use of such comments like “you’re married,” or “you’re smarter than that,” I gave in. I knew what I had to do.
That afternoon I came home before he did and set up the area as romantic as I could in such a small place. The sound of water running was music to my ears and the lock to that bathroom door was more protection than I had ever felt before. I prepared my toilet paper and my porcelain throne. I was ready, but to my dismay with each push came nothing but shooting pain. I panicked, and with the panic came tears. I spent that night curled up in the fetal position until he made the smartest decision he could make: hospital, here we came. I knew what was wrong, but I would take a bullet before I let my little secret out.
After X-Rays and ultrasounds, I was given my test results with him sitting next to me: bowel impaction. I was given pain medicine and laxatives and sent home. I drank eight ounces of mineral oil the next day and waited. Night came, and then morning; and I had nothing to show for my suffering. By that afternoon I began to feel the rumbling I had gone so long without. Needless to say, not even a toilet could hold its own in this fight. I stood there with my pants down in awe. After that fateful night, I was never the same. I embraced my bowel movements as the wonderful experiences they are.
Unfortunately, the damage had already taken its toll on my body, and thus years later I was diagnosed with Chronic constipation – a lifetime of striving to have just one more foul smelling child after another.
It has been four years since I was diagnosed; and in these four years, I have become very close to that stubborn little colon of mine. Recently, I was given a new medication. I’m sure some of you make consider constipation to be going three or four days without paying tribute to what makes us all human. To you I reply: try three weeks. I’ve tried enemas, mineral oil, suppositories, and even prune juice; but the more things I tried, the more frustrated I became. So, I was given the order to take a specific medicine twice a day and consume two bottles of Magnesium Citrate.
Again I waited, going to work in pain, and leaving work in pain. I work for a reputable company that prides itself on employing suit-wearing, uptight drones, so you could imagine how news like this may break a man’s spirit. I work alongside two hundred other employees and share a bathroom with about fifty – not the private place one would hope for when riding that brown rollercoaster. Just when I thought hope was long gone, again that ever so distant tremble could be felt, and a few hours later that tremble turned into a full blown earthquake. I hopped up from my desk and made my way to that porcelain friend I had missed so dearly.
Consideration for others is another one of my strong points, at least in trying to prevent someone hurling at my expense. A skilled pooper can pass a bowel while making no noise; and I have mastered that superpower. So, I let the good times roll, concentrating on silence, letting it rip when other toilets flushed. Then it came, the most pleasuring yet revolting feeling a chronic constipator can have – relief as that last bit of stool was released mixed with the knowledge that it is no longer manageably contained.
When all was said and done, I felt great, but the joy I felt would soon become disappointment. As the toilet paper-laden hand I’d put behind me came back into sight, my fears became reality. Not only had I crapped on myself but I was trapped in a stall with an awaiting audience two feet away. I cleaned up as best I could with the resources at hand, puffed my chest out, and slapped on the biggest smile I could manage, hoping that the stares I knew were inevitable would be directed at my goofy stance rather than the mess among my polished fingers. I walked out of that stall; and much to my surprise what I thought was a full bathroom ended up being a single person that occupied the stall next to where I had just made my escape. I quickly washed my hands in scalding water, applied sanitizer, and booked it back to my desk. I had just done something so disgusting, even by my standards, and no one knew. I spent the rest of my day maintaining a smile that my one year old often gets – that look that mischievously says, “I know something you don’t.”
Just as my day ended and I thought I was home free, I received an email from none other than my boss. Nothing was written the body, but in the subject line was four words : Please come see me. I knew I was a goner.
Trying to maintain my composure, I went to her office. She ushered me in and closed the door. I sat down and stared straight ahead. She came around to her cushioned back chair with that same smile I had on my face only moments ago. That day lead to not only a newfound appreciation for my rear but also for the people I have become closer to because of it.