In the Beginning

I have problems even discussing my bathroom habits with others, let alone having a witness to my work. Combine that with an irritable bowel, and a camping trip can become a nightmare. I am constantly fighting between constipation and diarrhea.

Three days into the camping trip I finally get an urge to go. The talk around the campfire earlier that evening was about a large cat seen lurking in the area. So when I announce my intention for a bathroom visit, my mother offers to hold the flashlight.

Great, how am I going to manage a shit with my mother standing outside the only available accommodations -- an old fashioned outhouse? I decline her offer, but it seems that she has swallowed the idea that there really is a hungry ferocious cougar waiting to eat her little girl.

We get to the facilities, and she decides that not only does she have to stand there listening, she wants the door left open because there is no light. Look, Mom, I know where my butt is! And I can take off enough paper before I close the door! But, alas, she is adamant, and the door must remain open.

So I sit on the wooden hole, splinters poking my delicate bottom, pants pulled down around my ankles, swinging my legs like a child, a stupid little grin on my face. I am 21 years old and I doubt I have shit in front of her for at least 18 of those years. I manage a little tinkle, and then try for the main event. Nothing. So, push harder. This, of course, requires a deep gasp of air.

Now we all know "air in an outhouse" is an oxymoron. The putrid breath I took in was of old feces and urine, rotting in a dank dark cavern beneath the earth. I almost lost the contents of my stomach, and my other urges immediately deserted me. Oh well, tomorrow is another day.

Indeed, after the next evening's marshmallow roast, complete with further talk of the cougar, my gut begins to rumble. I tried hard to slip away unnoticed, but mothers have a sixth sense about their children's safety, so off we go to the outhouse, together again. It was a repeat of the night before except I really tried to push harder. I guess it was a (reverse) psychological thing -- the harder I pushed, the further up it went, until I felt it no more. Well, we were headed home the following day, so I decided I could deposit my souvenir easier there.

For all those people out there who do not know how an irritable bowel works, I will say this: when I have to go I have to go, and I damn well better, or I could be very sorry.

The Asshole is Boss

You may remember a popular poster from several years ago. It was about the parts of the body having an argument over which was most important and therefore should be made boss. The eyes said if the body could not see, it would not be able to hunt or stay away from danger. The heart said it pumped the life-giving blood. All the parts of the body named their jobs and boasted of their importance. Then the asshole said he was most important, and the other parts laughed. So the asshole got mad and closed up shop. After many days the ears became sensitive, the heart slowed down, the eyes started to see a swirling fog, and the whole body began to collapse. The asshole wins the contest and the last line is, "Even an asshole can be a boss."

Well, it's not all that funny in reality.

Upon arriving home, I expected to expel copious quantities of brown goo... but nothing happened. I perched upon my own porcelain pot, and pushed and sweated and cried. I tried periodically for days, marking them off on the calendar. Night twelve was hard, as I could not cancel my preplanned housewarming unless I explained the reason, and I wouldn't. The music was turned up (I think), and I sat huddled in a corner watching fog swirl around the room. I actually wondered who brought the dry ice machine.

Let There Be Light

Day thirteen. I broke down and visited the doctor. My shaking legs could barely support me. I was hospitalized and (luckily) placed in an empty room. The nurse gave me an enema, and I lay there. My breath was now shallow and the fog was getting thicker... wow, this is trippy. It seemed very quiet for a hospital and ohh so dark and peaceful. The nurse checks back and nothing has happened, so on with the gloves and back to work for a second enema. I couldn't even feel what she did, as everything was numb back there. But I no longer even cared.

A little later, I open my eyes and the nurse tells me there is one more thing they can do before they put me in surgery. She tells me she will perform a manual on me. I didn't know what she was talking about, so I mumbled go ahead, whatever. I was wondering when they would turn the lights on, and then I heard her snap on another glove. I felt a cool breeze as she exposed my backside; it felt nice, but that's because I was also very feverish. I did feel a little pressure as she slid her finger up my hole, and I actually started to come back to reality.

"What the hell is she doing back there?" I thought, and I tried to look over my shoulder. I pushed up from the bed just as she was finishing. I found out later she was instructed to check if there was a blockage and try to get it out. There was, and she did.

Now I have two weeks worth of rotting feces backed up in me -- along with two enemas -- and she just pulled out the plug. There were thick chunks and watery crap and slime in every shade of brown and green and yellow. It started to pour out of me on the bed; I was still pushing upward to sit. I slid off the bed and dashed to the bathroom with this putrid sloop sloshing all over behind me. I couldn't stop it. As I was running, it was pouring down my legs and I was slipping in it. I felt like a cow, dropping huge patties behind me. I turned at the toilet and collapsed; it shot over the walls and splashed back on me. My right arm was dripping; I had some chunkies in my hair.

The smell was indescribable -- something must have died up in there. I had to keep flushing the toilet even though I barely had the strength. I finally looked around and realize the lights were on -- in fact, it was very bright, and the nurse was at the door watching me. Horror of horrors, this poor lady was forced to watch me and smell me! I started crying.

I was trying to hold my legs off the floor because there were puddles of poo down there. I was shaking and crying and she was asking if I was all right. I made enough noise to attract another nurse to come see me in all my glory. To make matters worse, I knew the women because my parents both worked at the hospital. So of course they both knew me! There they were, standing in my shit, making sure I was okay.

My brain started to function. Reality was coming back full force. This story is going to make the rounds in the hospital faster than my shit odor! I started snickering, then full-fledged laughing, and then back to crying. "What's wrong?" One nurse asks.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," was all I could muster. Then I started laughing again. They looked around, shit everywhere, and they started laughing with me.

-- Dustigenes