A few months back, I had a spell of dizziness. After a couple of days, it hadn't improved -- in fact, it was worsening. So I decided a trip to the E.R. was in order. After an interminable wait to see a doctor, I wound up being admitted to the hospital for tests.

I had a nice private room with private bath. Unfortunately, I was not in any shape to make use of those wonderful facilities. Waves of nausea accompanied by horrid dizziness hit me every time I even attempted to sit upright, much less stand and walk. So I was ordered to stay in the bed and call for assistance if I needed to use the bathroom. They didn't even take my pants off, as any movement caused me much misery.

Now, nurses are great people, but sometimes they can be a little slow to respond to the call button.

So I am lying in the bed when my belly begins churning and I know a poop of massive proportions is marching ever downwards toward my sphincter. I press the call button and an unknown voice says, "May I help you?"

"Yes," I say. "I need to use the bathroom."

"Okay. Someone will be right in."

So I wait and wait, cheeks clenched, fighting a strong urge to throw up as well.

Finally a nurse enters the room. But I am a pretty big man, so the nurse has to call for reinforcements. And then I am so wobbly that they decide a bedside commode will be the best way to handle the situation. So they run across the hall and grab one that is in another patient's room. My condition is deteriorating fast while the two nurses busily wipe down the equipment with some cleaner. "Please hurry," I say, "or there's not going to be any need." But they just keep cleaning.

Finally they get it clean enough to suit them and proceed to help me up. But as soon as I move I start dry-heaving, which, of course, unleashes the river of brown goo into my pants.

"It's too late now," I announce.

But they continue their efforts to place me on the bedside shitter. I continue heaving and squirting as they undo my belt and lower my trousers. The crap is flowing like a volcano down my legs.

As they lower me onto the pot, I continue to splutter; so, of course, I end up sitting in my own.

Finally I finish and the clean-up begins. Besides myself and my clothes, I have soiled the bed, the floor, and the bedside commode the nurses spent so much time readying for my use. They change the bed, mop up the floor, and clean the pot once more. They deem my drawers unsalvageable and throw them away. They deposit my soiled pants and belt in a plastic bag to send home.

Back in bed, they give me a washcloth and I attempt to clean myself the best I can. Which is not very well, evidentially, as I realized when I got home a few days later and found dried poop on my legs and privates.

I was tested for the cause of my dizziness, but no reason for it was ever found. The rest of my hospital stay was thankfully crap-free -- although one rather funny incident did occur the morning of the day I finally got released. I woke up on Friday morning and saw a sign on the bathroom door in my room. It read: "GET STOOL SAMPLE."

I asked the nurse when she came in my room what they wanted a sample for. She said they wanted to check and see if a virus had been the cause of my great runniness. Only problem: since my big explosion was three days earlier, the bug or whatever it was had clearly disappeared because I hadn't took a dump since. They should have got their sample when there was plenty of stool available, on the bed, on the floor, in a plastic bag containing my pants and my belt, and, despite my best efforts, crusted on my legs and privates.