During the past year I worked at a company that provides direct care services for 'developmental disabled' which means, basically, I worked with crazy retarded people. I spent the majority of my time at The Company working with behaviorally disabled. It consisted of mostly dealing with their lying, stealing, aggression (I sustained a concussion from one of these behaviors), insults, and the occasional PIKA compulsion where usually some sort of bodily secretion would be smeared, thrown, or ingested by one of our clients. However, my most demanding position didn't come about until I worked in a "medically fragile" facility. The residents of this house are completely dependent on staff to complete
all their activities of daily living: bathing, dressing, eating, and, of course, the funniest of all ADLs, toileting.
One of the residents, Tim, was incredibly caring but also demented. He desired most of the staff time. Tim often yelled, "AWWW, I JUST CRAPPED MY PANTS!" to get staff attention. For the first couple of weeks I fell for it and checked his adult briefs every time he sounded the call. This was not an easy task to do alone, seeing that he is paralyzed on the right half of his body and weighs more than I do. Eventually I learned the signs of Tim's manipulations and stopped checking. But he got his revenge.
One late morning, Tim was screaming something about how he's not going to marry me anymore and his normal "crapped my pants" and "have to go shit" spiel. My co-worker, Gabe, who was sitting close to him, caught a whiff of something more attention-grabbing than his yells. So we proceeded to wheel his very hard-to-maneuver Lazy-Boy style wheelchair back to The John.
Once at the door to the bathroom, Gabe and I began the much-easier-with-two-people-but-still-awkward process of lifting paralyzed Tim, pulling his trousers down, and setting him on the lifted toilet seat to finish his business. I was on the back end of the ordeal because Gabe had a much easier time lifting.
While pulling down his pants I saw that Tim was telling the truth this time. Tim's underside (including the carpet) was covered with something that can only be described as rancid oatmeal. Before setting him on the seat, I thought I should clean off his backside so I wouldn't have to clean dried, rancid oatmeal off the seat.
Since Tim was still telling us that he had to go, it would have been beneficial to rethink my game plan.
As I was kneeling and wiping, I felt and smelt a gust of air brush my face. Then it came. It looked like uncooked peanut butter brownie mix being poured onto my (thankfully gloved) hand. The only thing I could say to Gabe was, "Oh my God! It's coming out!"
To which he responded, "What?! Right now!?"
We plopped Tim down on the seat with the stinky array of discharged cooking products sticking to his derriere -- at least the part that didn't end up on my hand, my shoes, and the floor. Needless to say, he was not very productive on The John -- he'd already relieved himself on me.
