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 Runny GirlPosted 02.09.2005 by Caca Doodle (29)
As I sat at the computer moments ago, contentedly surfing the net and farting tiny farts, I felt it: the sudden, familiar, yet much-dreaded urge to quickly evacuate my bowels. I stood and began making my way to my toilet, only to realize -- too late, too late. I stopped and felt the pasty shit fill my crack, as if squeezed from some kind of physiological caulking gun. The urge stopped; I went into the bathroom and did the cleaning routine.
Sadly, you see, this kind of incident is not unheard of in my world. I suffer from an unfortunate disease that requires me to take large amounts of immunosuppressive drugs -- the same drugs people who have had organ transplants take. The worst side effect, for me, at least, is "GI distress." Sometimes the distress comes in the form of several watery blasts of shit in quick succession. Sometimes it comes in the form of cramping. And sometimes, like today, it comes in the form of an overwhelming urge to shit only two seconds before the flow commences. It's a real bitch, but the alternative life without the drugs would be worse. Suffice it to say, it's not fun to be me. In the shower just now, I recalled an incident that occurred about three years ago. I think the time has come to share the story with my peers here on PoopReport. It was a cold January morning, and I'd already visited the toilet twice to push out toothpaste-consistency butt lava. I was sitting with my daughter, then four, having breakfast. As is often the case, the morning meal induced more bowel contractions, even if I think I've emptied myself. These urges were STRONG. I stopped in mid-bite, concentrating with every ounce of strength to hold myself clamped and hoping the urge would pass so I could make it to the toilet -- about fifty feet away -- and release my burden into the porcelain. My daughter must have noticed the expression on my face. In her sweetest voice, she asked, "What's wrong, Mama?" I didn't answer -- I was holding on with everything I had. This felt like the rectal equivalent of Mount St. Helens, and we all know how catastrophic her last eruption was. The urge subsided. I cautiously released a tiny bit of pressure on my sphincter, as, quite frankly, I was spent. At that very second a HUGE contraction hit; I was totally powerless as liquid shit shot out of my anus and into my pajama bottoms (I was not wearing panties). This was accompanied by the sound of a large gas bubble, which caused my daughter to first jump, and then laugh with glee -- she KNEW what had just gone down. However, her peals of laughter were soon stifled as the acrid stench of the liquishit hit her preschool nostrils. "Mama, what happened, did you POO?" Oh how I wished it was just poo. Now -- how to get out of this mess? I was seated on a barstool. I had no choice. I stood up and rivers of shit flowed down my legs and into my fuzz-lined slippers. Oh FUCK, I'd forgotten to take them off! I kicked them off now, and the diarrhea flowed onto the hardwood floor. It was awful. I decided to just take off the PJ bottoms; they were clearly making things worse as they continued to release their bounty. I stepped out of them, wiping down my legs with the few remaining spots of clean flannel. I surveyed the damage. It looked like someone had spilled a Port-o-John on my lovely kitchen floor. The next part of my story, is the worst (or best, depending on your view of the world). My sixteen-year-old dog had caught wind of what was happening. As most of you know, dogs love to eat shit. Yes, my fellow poopers, she made a beeline for the puddle and began lapping away. And right at that time, another contraction hit, and I added some more pudding to the already disastrous situation -- only this time I had no pajamas to slow the flow. My daughter finally fully comprehended the situation, and began retching from the birds-eye view she got on her barstool. I knocked the dog away from the mess with one leg and shouted to my daughter to stop looking at the shit so I wouldn't have VOMIT to clean as well. I went into the laundry room and pulled out some old towels we normally use for bathing the dogs. I threw them onto the pile and wiped up the stinking, cooling river of poo. My daughter still sat on the barstool, eyes wide as saucers, observing my shit-streaked bare ass and legs, and said simply, "Mama, I think you need to take a shower." I took the soiled towels, pajamas, and slippers, put them in the washer, poured in detergent, and set it for super wash/large load/hot. I figure the "three-minute rule" applied here -- if you can get them into the washer before the shit congeals, the items can still be salvaged. I'd just made it. I took a couple of cleansing breaths and headed up the stairs to the privacy of my shower. I turned on the water and stepped into the shower. Ahhhhhhh, such sweet relief. However, I was soon not alone. My daughter stood at the end of the walk in shower and "supervised" the clean up. She even asked for the hand-held shower, told me to turn around, and expertly blasted my crack for me. My humiliation complete, I pondered the fact that life had come full circle. I was now being cared for by my daughter -- something I didn't think would happen for at least several more decades. I'm happy to report that I've not had had anywhere near a repeat of that performance since then. The eruptions are smaller, rare, and usually contained within my crack. I've learned a lot since that memorable day three years ago. I'm now looking hopefully at some new drug options which would allow me to quit taking the ones causing GI distress. That, for me, would be a miracle. -- Caca Doodle Post new comment
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