When I filed for divorce and moved out with my three young children in 1993, it became clear that I would need to make some personal improvements if I were to be able to support us on my own. So I enrolled myself in the local community college full time and took the only job that I could find that would work with a school schedule and being home with my kids at night: I became a school bus driver. I went to class on Monday, Wednesday and Friday from 9:30 AM until 1:30 PM. I drove the bus from six AM to nine AM and from two PM to 4:30 PM. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I would do special trips in between those hours as well.

It seemed that things were going very well with this job choice. The only thing that didn't cooperate with my hectic schedule was my IBS.

The most damning factor of this disorder is the simple fact that there is no way to anticipate an attack. It sneaks up on you like a mountain lion and pounces without warning, ripping your guts to shreds. Not a good thing to happen to anyone -- especially one who is driving a motor vehicle. My attacks usually occurred after five PM, when I was at home. But there were a couple of occasions when I was not so lucky. During one of them I was driving a load of kids home from a band competition and was the last bus in a group of three coming down the interstate. I had been hoping that I could make it all the way back to the school, but once we took our exit and I saw the gas station so conveniently close to the road, two of the buses made the left turn, and I went right. I am sure that the confused parents chaperoning the trip understood why we stopped once I'd run off the bus, because when I stood up I left them a very smelly clue as to where I was headed in such a hurry. Nobody asked any questions once I returned. Actually, nobody said a word the whole way back to the school. Very quiet ride the rest of the way home.

But that was a good day. No serious ramifications of that little unanticipated pit stop. This was not to be the case on another fateful day in my career as a school bus driver -- a day that would make all other IBS days pale in comparison.

It was a very cold afternoon. I was wearing a thermal shirt, turtleneck, hooded sweatshirt, long johns, a thin pair of sweat pants and a big baggy pair of jeans over top of those. I had my socks pulled up to my knees over the sweats, and a big clunky pair of boots. I was nice and cozy, and feeling just fine. I was halfway through the elementary school run and was due to pick up a load of middle school kids right after that, and then finish up with the high school. Everything was good.

I was at a stop when the first pain hit me. I was pretty sure that it was just gas, and since there were still plenty of kids on the bus I knew that I could sneak some out and they would all start blaming each other. Nobody would know that it was me. So I did. And oh my God -- it's a good thing that I was wearing my seatbelt, because the awful aroma that wafted up into my face and punched me in the nose was enough to knock me right out of my seat. I quickly opened the door and the kids started getting off at their stop, and the sudden suction from the door pulled the smell right into their path. Just as I had imagined, they immediately started coughing and blaming each other. Ha ha. I pulled that off like a pro. I think I may have even had a slight grin on my face.

But it was soon replaced by a worried frown. The next feeling that I experienced was one that made me very aware that it was not just gas. I was not going to be able to sneak this out. I went into lock-down mode. I was sitting bolt upright in my seat, squeezing with all my might, trying to put my colon in reverse. "Just suck it up," I told myself. "You can do this. This is the last stop, and you can get to the next school in ten minutes and run inside before the bell."

As the last few kids were approaching the door they lollygagged around, still giggling and poking fun and accusing each other of being the "phantom farter." I watched them in my overhead mirror, just wishing they would hurry up and get off the bus. "Just GO ALREADY!!!!" I was screaming to myself. Pressure was building up inside me to such intensity that I couldn't speak for fear of transferring some of the energy I was using on my butt cheeks to my face. I was truly miserable. Finally, the last kid was off the bus and it was clear for me to proceed on.

I pushed in the emergency brake release button, put the bus in gear, and managed to move my foot off the brake and on to the accelerator. Now I was thinking, "Okay, I can get to the school. It's not that far. Everything is going to be okay." But who did I think I was kidding? I was driving a school bus, for Pete's sake. These things aren't exactly designed for getting anywhere fast.

I was moving along as well as I could, but with each passing second it was getting clearer to me that I was not, no matter how I tried, going to make it to the school. There were nothing but subdivisions and apartment complexes on the way to the school. I was starting to squirm in my seat, rocking back and forth and side to side. The usual sweating that occurs with one of these attacks was made more severe due to the amount of clothing I had on. I didn't know what to do. I was trapped in this big tin can, on a busy street during heavy afternoon traffic, and I knew things were about to get even worse.

The pain from trying to hold it together was too great. I was sweating and shaking and squirming and squeezing, but it got to be too much for my little body to endure. Once my mind realized what my butt already knew had begun, I started to cry. Great big tears were rolling down my cheeks, my nose was running like a faucet, and I was now shaking my head and pleading out loud to myself, and God, saying, "No... please, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO... (sob, sob, sniff)" -- but it was too late for begging, or hoping, or praying.

The feeling of what began to come out of me can only be described as though someone had shoved a fire hose out of my ass and started pumping my pants full of warm pizza dough. It started right in the crotch and slowly spread into each leg, growing as if the dough was starting to rise and creeping farther down my pants on both sides until it reached the back of my knees. The pressure in my stomach soon subsided, but the torment was just beginning. The stench was almost unbearable. I was crying my eyes out, overwhelmed with embarrassment and disgust, choking from the powerful reeking stench, still driving, desperately trying to think of how to get myself out of this nightmare.

I used my cell phone to call the dispatcher and told her that I was feeling ill, and would be 10-7 (off the bus) at a particular school for a bit. I had no intention of going to the school at that point, but I was trying to cover my already shit-covered ass for being off the bus. She said that she would cover my middle school run and for me to let her know when I was 10-8 (back on the bus). That gave me a good forty-five minutes to take some action. I then proceeded to drive my forty-two-foot transit-style big yellow bus down the dead-end street on which I lived. I parked that sucker right in front of the door of my apartment building. I then had to get out and do the walk of shame through the lobby and up the stairs to my apartment.

I am sure that there was a green fume cloud hovering around me. And if there was any doubt about what the putrid smell could be, then I am sure that the waddle walk I was doing probably confirmed to those who happened to see me that I indeed had a load of shit in my pants.

My jeans and sweats were spared from the mess by the long johns. I dropped the first two items on the bathroom floor and stepped into the shower to peel off the poop-caked long johns. Most of the poop was stuck to the long johns, so I was able to just wad them up and deposit them right into the trashcan and tie up the bag. I showered and put on a fresh set of clothes and was back on the bus in time to head to my last school for the day. I managed to finish up, and reported back to the garage to clock out.

The driver that had covered my second run for me was one of a group of people referred to as "relief drivers." If only they knew that while they were dropping my load of kids home from school that day, that I was at home dropping off a load of my own. And oh, what a relief it was.