About a year ago, when my now husband and I first got together, his apartment was being renovated. The landlord told him to find somewhere else to live for about a week. I still lived at home, so he decided to stay with his mother. I had never met her and thought this would be a good opportunity. I suggested that I come over one night and we would go to dinner.
I am a longtime IBS sufferer. I have been on every type of laxative, stool softener, and anti-diarrheal med known to man. I either poop four or five times a day and feel awful and sick -- or I go two weeks without a trip to the bathroom. Either way, I've come to the realization that I will never be a "normal" pooper.
Back to the main story. I found out that his mother likes to cook and suggested that she make us dinner. That week had been a no-poop week, and it had been at least five days since my last poop. The night before dinner I decided to try one of my prescription laxatives so that I could actually enjoy the meal without feeling nine months pregnant and full of shit. The night passed and so did the next day, all with no poop. I tried several times to sit on the toilet and make myself go, but nothing happened.
I told hubby the shituation and he thought it was hilarious.
So I arrived and met his mother. She made a wonderful dinner of soup beans (complete with onions and hot peppers), fried chicken, cornbread, and potatoes. Not thinking, I helped myself to seconds of everything and was quite stuffed. We talked and had a wonderful evening. I was confident that she really liked me.
It was getting late and I decided that it was time to go home. It was also time to go poop. The beans, along with the laxative from the night before, were working in unison and I could feel the tummy roll. I announced my departure and to my astonishment, she asked me to stay, saying that it was too late for me to drive home. I didn't want to be rude and say no; plus, being a new couple at the time, any chance to sleep in the same bed as my love was great. I decided that I would just have to hold this poop and leave early the next morning.
At about 3:30 AM, I awoke with horrendous pains in my stomach. I knew that an extremely large poop was in order... but I have a history of toilet clogging and this was certainly not the place. I tried to go back to sleep and ignore the pain, but I couldn't. I thought I might poop myself right there. I woke hubby and explained that I had to poop really bad, but I was afraid of clogging the toilet. He insisted it would be fine and to go.
So up the stairs I went to the bathroom. I quietly shut the door behind me and raced to sit down. As soon as I released my cheeks, a huge turd -- I'm guessing the size of a pop can -- came flying out with enough force to move a mountain. The release was so sweet, I accidentally let out a loud grunt. Another, smaller -- but still quite massive -- turd followed. I felt like a new person. I made sure I was done and wiped.
Now the flush.
I flushed the first time, and of course the water started to rise. I prayed to God that the toilet would not overflow -- and was answered. But I couldn't leave this giant poop sitting for his poor unsuspecting mother to find.
I looked around for something to break up the turd, but all I could find was a ballpoint pen. I carefully diced the logs into smaller (but still quite large) chunks, all the while avoiding skin contact with the water, which now looked like super chunky chocolate milk.
I flushed again. No luck. This mess was not going down. I ran downstairs and told hubby that I clogged the toilet and it wouldn't flush. He said he would wake up early and take care of the mess in the morning.
I rolled over and tried to sleep. But I only managed an hour or two before I decided that I had to fix this. I went back upstairs to the scene of the crime and I was about to get down to business when I saw, to my horror, that the mess was gone.
His mother walked by the door and I heard her bedroom door shut.
She must have been in the kitchen when I came back upstairs. I had now been caught brown-handed.
I shamefully went back downstairs and got dressed. I said goodbye to hubby and left.
He never mentioned to me if his mother said anything later that day, and I put the traumatic incident behind me. About a month later, after hubby moved back into his apartment, his mother dropped by one day while I was over. I made small conversation to be friendly, and then excused myself. I said that I would be right back, that I had to use the bathroom real quick.
As I walked down the hall, I heard her say to my hubby, "Do you have a plunger? You'll definitely need one when she's done." I wanted to die.
