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 While Searching For Poosey RidgePosted 07.31.2006 by Motherload (1057)
After my first divorce, as I mentioned in my first story, I enjoyed several years of almost normal bowel function. "Almost" is the operative word here. While I did get a much-needed reprieve from the curse known as IBS, I unknowingly caused myself great physical trauma and emotional distress by simply following instructions given to me by medical personnel.
I had injured my right knee and was taken to the emergency room for initial treatment. I was immediately injected with Demerol and given a prescription for Lortab and a referral to an orthopedic surgeon. I was told to be sure to take my medication at precise intervals to prevent break-through pain, because waiting too long could cause significant discomfort while waiting for the medicine to take effect again. I was able to see the surgeon the following day, but the surgery was not scheduled until the next week. I had plenty of medication to get me through until then. No problem. Surgery day came and everything went nicely. I was given another prescription for Lortab and set up for physical therapy to begin after removal of the staples in two weeks. I was also to wear -- at all times -- a knee immobilizer, which, as I'm sure you know, goes from the top of the foot to the top of the thigh. Since I had gotten used to not having to run like a lunatic to the bathroom for an IBS event, it did not really occur to me that I had not had a bowel movement at all for over a week. I just kept popping my pills on cue and enjoying being waited on by everyone while I lounged around like the Queen of Sheba. My boyfriend at the time had gotten a call from an old friend who was camping out that weekend to suggest that we come to where he was and hang out for a while. It seemed to me that I would be able to lounge outside just as easily as inside, so we decided to go and try to find where he was. The name of the place that we were trying to find was "Poosey Ridge." Neither one of us had ever heard of this place, but the guy had given very detailed directions on how to find it. According to him, it should take us about an hour to get there from our house. It was supposedly was just slightly off the beaten path. After managing to get me stuffed into the passenger side of my little Toyota Corolla with my unbending right leg, off we went. Within about forty-five minutes we were deep into the creepiest woods I have ever seen. I had assumed we would be able to spot his campsite easily, as it was already getting dark and we knew he would have a fire going by then. But no such luck. After about an hour in the woods driving around on poorly paved roads, then gravel roads, and then dirt roads, it became clear to us that we were lost. And what was worse is that I suddenly felt the need to poop. I told my boyfriend to just turn around and get us out of there and take me to a gas station. I knew that I needed to go soon, but I really thought that I could wait for a while. He did turn around, and back we went on the bumpy, winding pathway to nowhere. I was starting to moan because cramps were shooting across my midsection like lightning bolts. And then I felt something shift inside of me. Something really big. I began to feel panicky; I started sweating profusely and screamed at him to hurry up and get me somewhere, anywhere but here. He suggested that I get out and just go where we were. I adamantly refused this idea, as there was grass at least as high as my waist on both sides of the little dirt trail we were on, and nothing but trees and creepy shadows and creatures and bugs and snakes and who knows what else in there. I was not about to get out of that car. No way. Suddenly, just ahead off to the right, I saw a clearing about the width of the car. I told him to back into that spot. I really had to go now. I grabbed a handful of Wendy's napkins from the glove box and exited quite clumsily with my stiff leg. I hobbled to the rear of the car and began to assume the best position that I could, given my circumstances. Luckily I had the immobilizer on underneath my sweat pants, so that didn't hinder me in getting them pulled down sufficiently. However, I had to figure out what to do to get my butt closer to the ground, since standing there would have just caused me to fill my pants up -- something which I could have just stayed in the car and done -- and I didn't think I would be able to bend over and put enough force behind it to project it away from my body. After a few seconds of thought, I grabbed hold of the trunk, did a one-legged squat move, and then slid my right leg out an angle so that it acted much like the stabilizer arm on a backhoe. Sweet. I thought I had it made. I felt the shift inside me once again; but this time gravity was working as well, and there was definitely something big on the way. I was hoping that once I had made it to this point that everything else would just easily come to pass. Not happening. The cramps in my stomach were radiating up into my shoulders, and as hard as I was trying, nothing was coming out. I needed to get serious here. I pushed harder. I tried the Lamaze approach. I started imagining that I would soon be on board some medi-vac chopper flying me out of this hell-hole called Poosey Ridge with blood pouring out of my backside from the damage this giant turd was causing. There wasn't really any gas involved in this attack -- instead, I heard a constant high-pitched squeaking noise coming from my butt. Must have been the sound of skin about to rip. It was pitch dark except for what little illumination the taillights were giving off -- but all of a sudden there was a bright white light around me (which was probably just a near-death experience), and I heard a thud, and then the ping of a couple of rocks hitting the car, and then the smack of my butt cheeks slamming together. I felt as though someone had just shoved a hot coal up my ass. I used one of my napkins. Soft is not a word used to describe Wendy's' napkins. I looked at it expecting to see it covered in blood, but surprisingly there was nothing there. I pulled myself back into a standing position and got my pants up. Brake lights really don't illuminate the ground much and I really wanted to see this thing that had caused me such grief, so I told my boyfriend to bring me the flashlight from the glove box. He got out and brought it to me. I shined the light at the spot where I had let loose and what I saw was unbelievable. I had dropped a perfectly round baseball-sized turd that was exactly the same color as the dirt road it now laid upon. Steam was rising from it. We both stared at it in amazement -- until suddenly there was another light. We looked up and discovered that the clearing that we were in was actually a driveway to a house whose owner had now turned on the porch light to see what all the commotion outside was. Not knowing how to react to this, we both got back in the car and went as fast as we could out of there. While I can say that I did not experience much pain from my knee injury or the surgery thanks to the Lortab, it should be noted that those pills can certainly cause quite a major pain in the ass. Post new comment
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