My least favorite emoji is the poop emoji. My least favorite sound is a fart, any fart, even a Blazing Saddles bean-powered campfire fart, especially that. My least favorite bodily function is … give a guess.
But when I was hospitalized for a little touch of cancer, that is all we talked about. Butt stuff.
“We,” my buddies in Room 4218, nurses, doctors, aides, techs, housekeeping, dietitians (Notice my wonderful spelling, “dietitians” with a t, no c. I’m a real writer.) Oh. Lost control of that sentence, kind of like I lost control of, ya know, stuff.
“We” talked about shape, consistency, timing, effort (YOU’RE JUST MAKING IT WORSE!), formation, solid, liquid, expectancy, explosiveness, blood. Blood!
Coincidentally, these are also, every English major will instantly recognize, the Elements of Fiction.
I hated every minute of those perverted dialogues. I hate that I am telling you this. But, no one asks any more, now that I am home. Am I strangely addicted to sharing my horrible brown secret?
I learned about all manner of medical products developed to help people who poop. Wipes. “Briefs,” by which they mean big girl pull-ups. I HAVEN’T WORN DIAPERS IN SIXTY YEARS! You can see what becomes of a person. Witch hazel wipes, because witches are clearly needed here. Creams.
I’m holding back. I now understand why people become anal.
“When was your last bowel movement?” Such an accusatory question!
“About 4:30 this morning. I think.”
“Was it … normal?”
This last is asked in the tone of Arlo Guthrie’s draft officer, “Kid, have you rehabilitated yourself?”
It was thick. The consistency was muddy. Incomplete. A failed poop.
It’s the drugs, the opiods.
“Here, take a stool softener.” More drugs.
Seemed like softness was not the issue. I would draw you a picture but the only thing worse than words about poop are pictures of poop and GOD-DAMNED emojis of poop. Sorry, algorithm.
Poop likes to maintain an equilibrium. Like Cinderella. Is it Cinderella? Or Goldilocks. Anyway, not too much this, just enough that.
Soft, but not too soft. Moving, but not as fast as Two Men and a Truck. More like your brother-in-law who got to the beer before the, uh, move.
The goal is to empty the bowels so you get that ish out of you. If it hangs around, well, you can see the problem. If you see it, time to change your briefs! You think I’m kidding.
Is this all a big joke to you?
Laugh, clown, laugh.
Can we fast forward to the part where I solve my own problem and become the heroine of my own epic? Here’s the boring solution. Stopped the stool softeners. Added lovely hospital brand Metamucil-y type stuff mixed in hospital fruit juice.
Soon, no more pain. Shorter convos about “was it normal?” YES, YES, YES!
And, oh, my god! The formation! My, uh, you know, uh, parts made just beautiful… I can’t finish this sentence. Maybe I’m not a writer.
But I can poo in the potty.
No one asks anymore.
