I was always on the Shameful side, ever since I could remember. Around the time I was fourteen, I developed Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Combined with my shame, it was a difficult battle. Whenever I was heading into the car for an extended trip or heading out to spend a day with friends, I'd rarely eat beforehand. If I had to, it was the smallest bit imaginable. Fortunately, I never embarrassed myself. This story is about one close call.
My oldest brother lives about an hour from the house where I live with my parents. My sister, mother, brother, and myself all piled into the car for the drive out. As usual, I didn't eat beforehand and loaded up on my prescribed pills, just in case.
The ride out was smooth. I had my mp3 player blasting and quietly drifted in and out of consciousness. Upon arriving, I still attempted to avoid eating, but eventually I gave in and finally ate extremely plain, boring, and bland things.
I was doing well. When it came time to leave, we piled into the car once again for the drive home. I sat with my mp3 again, relaxing. I suppose around the halfway mark, I let my guard down.
I was listening to a cover of Blue Oyster Cult's Don't Fear The Reaper when the initial rumblings began. I instantly began to calm myself down, figuring it was just some nerves. The song should have been called Don't Fear the Crapper; then it may have provided some sort of comfort. Soon enough, I got that sort of split-second pop feeling, and my stomach began pounding. It felt like Mike Tyson was preparing for a fight on my colon, a jump-rope contest utilizing my intestines, boy scouts earning their knot-tying merit badges with my stomach.
I was ready to panic. I waited as long as possible before notifying my mother. She had no idea where I could go, but luckily, we were in an area my sister regularly passed through en route to work. She pulled over at a place where she used to get lunch, and I hurried out, taking off into the store with a strange sort of dance that only colon rush-hour could create, my mom following swiftly after. Thankfully, the bathroom was vacant and I hurried in and relieved myself.
I wish I could remember some of the more intricate details (I know we all love them), but I must have blocked them out. It wasn't particularly messy, thankfully. When I had finally finished and cleaned up, the smell was enough to gag a maggot.
As I was about to flush, I looked down and noticed that someone had dropped a can of spray or disinfectant into the toilet before I had gotten in there. In my frantic action, I didn't notice as I hastily had gotten down to business. The aerosol can was now buried under a small mountain. I flushed, but of course, it clogged on the can. Cursing, I looked around for something to at least spray to dim the scent of Satan. Rifling through the cabinet and closet, I finally procured a spray can of air freshener and held the button on it for a good fifteen seconds. I turned to leave, saying a prayer to myself for the poor soul who had to retrieve that aerosol can. I opened the door, and my mother looked at me concerned.
"Let's go," I grimaced through tight lips. We quickly moved out and got in the car and pulled away."
There was a line forming," she informed me. "But I told them you were sick and would be a while, and they went back to sit down." I said a prayer of thanks this time, glad I didn't have to take that walk of shame.
