My mom and I flew to Oregon to see a renowned specialist. We stayed in a fleabag hotel near the hospital where I was due to undergo surgery the next day to remove extensive endometriosis and undergo a hysterectomy. In preparation for the surgery, I have to completely clean out the colon so they could scan for any bad tissue that may have invaded my intestines.
For starters, we have two Fleet enemas. I've never done anything like an enema before. I'm in for a treat. Lying on my side all alone on the cold bathroom floor -- "Insert what? Where? Why didn't they tell you to warm it up just a little! It's cold! I have to lie here bare and exposed for how long? I'm freezing!" All I'm left with are my dark thoughts of what's still to come and my intestines doing the Hokey Pokey Easter Bunny Hop. I'm just thankful I can do it alone. I mean, it would be even worse if my mom had to help me.
After the preordained amount of time, the first enema is explosively evacuated. (Embarrassing as hell.) My mom is just outside the door wondering why we didn't get air freshener. I don't want her to hear the second set of enema results. I send her to the store. I tell her to stay away for at least an hour. "Mom, go eat, or something. Pleeeez!" She protests that it's okay, but I start crying. She finally leaves. I can now opoohrate in non-solidtude.
This is the kind of event where your fight-or-flight response kicks in and your brain desperately wonders why you aren't responding to the flight signal. "Hello?" Tapping on the microphone. "Is this thing on?" My stomach, however, is responding quite well: the jets of battery acid are operating on full blast.
Mom comes back before I can expel the second set of contents. Charming, Mom, just charming. Oh lookie! We've only just begun! Two Fleet enemas are down the toilet via the colon detour, but we have a gallon jug of toxic liquid to go. Oh joy! I must drink a certain amount of the supposedly-orange-flavored crap every hour. Think McDonald's orange Kool-Aid (which is nasty all on its own) and then add a mad scientist's secret boilermaker ingredient that can peel paint. Turpentine, maybe?
Glass one goes down while I literally hold my nose to dull the taste. It doesn't work. To this day, I still make the face of disgust in remembrance. A liquidy poo ensues. Glass two: diarrhea. Glass three: you get the picture. By glass eight, I am dying. My ulcerative stomach is having a fire sale. I'm starving. I'm cold. I hurt.
They advise me to apply A&D Ointment to my anus after each liquid evacuation. I am a good girl and do as I am told. I devise a Saran Wrap system on my finger to apply the salve to my delicate little starfish. (Before you ask, I did use a new piece of Saran Wrap for each application.) After glass two or so, I understand why they recommend this very important step. Sadly, the A&D Ointment provides minimal damage control from the effects of the relentless carbolic acid. My winking brown -- no, red! -- eye has become the nozzle of an angry Marine's wicked flamethrower at grunt zero.
I call the doctor. "Can I please not do glass eighty-leven and ninety-ten? I am pooping clear Three Mile Island water, for gawd's sake, and I can't take it any more!" He relents.
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Post surgery, recuperating in the hospital room, it's quite funny how important it is to the nursing staff that you resume pooping. I just want to find every Tums available in the state of Oregon. My stomach is still on an acid trip that I can't enjoy and even the thought of a poop at this point would kill me. I'd rather just keep farting, thankyouverymuch! (Farts are guuud, m'kay?) Those pesky nurses keep feeding me food, though. Dang it! Worse still, I keep eating the food. Double DANG IT!
Of course, the inevitable dreaded eviction notice arrives. The evil tenant has ruined the apartment and must be kicked out. The surly Goth teenager comes to the back door in style, wearing a shattered glass jacket with barbed-wire embellishments. The leather outfit is complete with a spiked dog collar, brass knuckles, and studded motorcycle boots. The angry occupant has trashed the joint. Hot lava was thrown about to melt the humble anal abode. Habanero sauce was dropped at the last party and still stains the back porch. The result? Inner society demands forcible ejection of the tenant.
My anus is totally averse to this departure and requests an acquittal. "Let the tenant stay! Grunt it assylum! Give it dipoohmatic immunity!" The inner tube rejects this motion. The anus' attempts at red tape do not stop the movement. The process still moves forward. When all appeals fail, my anus starts negootiations so that Rocky can be put under house arse-arrest. It postoolates that jejunum jail is a great place to do time.
Alas. My anus is no lawyer. (Side note: do they make motor oil lubricant enemas? Vaseline injections? Ass-Mace neutralizer? Poopy-pepper-spray eliminator? No??!!) My god! My porcelain god! Why have you forsaken meeee?
Maaaahahahmeeeee!
I resort to a Lamaze style of breathing in short blasts, praying I will pass out. My jaw is clenched as hard as my anus wants to be clamped down, while I pant like a dog in the Mojave Desert. My core muscles are shaking in a kind of forced-relaxed state as I desperately try to control the exodus. My hopes are to let the tenant leave slowly enough to cause minimum glass shard damage.
Not sure it worked. Sweating in a cold panic of pain, I finally, reluctantly, give birth to the only child I will ever have, complete with blood and all. I think it smiled at me! The tenant has left the building. It is finished.
P.S. Do you have the number of the Mylanta distributor?
