My Poop Story

I've always had an affinity for poop and fart jokes. Firstly, they're universally hilarious - even if someone pretends to be disgusted by the vulgarity, they're secretly giggling on the inside. Secondly, I have two brothers. I am in my late twenties, and they still sit on me and fart on me at least twice a year. Thirdly, I'm a nurse. Our profession deals with poop a lot: it plays an important role in health and well-being. In fact, a major trigger for delirium in seniors is constipation; sometimes they have a poop and they revert to their normal selves. Plus, you've never seen a dramatic personality improvement until you've deal with someone before and after a major back-up. The transformative powers of a good poop are really amazing.

Before my surgery, my brothers played a laugh-tastic game: name your last fart after a movie title. My personal favorites were: The Sound of Music, Twister, The Godfather, Waterworld, and Captain Phillips. The list goes on - it's a fun game. I'm glad I played it: it put me in the mindset to laugh (rather than feel demoralized) at my own poop story.

Everyone is at risk of constipation in the hospital, especially immobile individuals taking high doses of morphine. (Me).  I was afraid constipation would be my fate in hospital, and it was. I had some luck but not enough. The day I was discharged I wore a striped maxi-dress/muu-muu, and everyone was gracious enough not to point out that I looked six months pregnant. Seriously, my belly was so painfully distended that I even took a picture. I immediately erased it out of shame. Oh, it was so painful, my bloated stomach. Something had to happen.

That evening, after a few false hopes and fruitless attempts, I hobbled over to the raised toilet seat with my walker and banished Dan from the room. He kept lurking because I was deathly pale, but I persisted in shooing him away, and he would check up on me in five minute intervals. I strained. Ah, how I strained. It's a hard thing to do when all of your insides hurt, when you're exhausted, and when your hip really hurts. However, I was determined to be victorious and I kept working away until I reached a small modicum of success. I called Dan into the room. I was pale, collapsed onto the bathroom walls, and literally panting. I needed a glass of water and a cold compress around my neck to keep me from passing out. I was destroyed, ruined. That small poop was harder and more punishing than finishing an effing Ironman - no jokes.

I got back to bed and started crying. Blearily, I asked Dan: is this ever going to be funny? And he said: it's already funny. There's always a choice - to laugh or cry. I laughed.

The next morning, well, let's just say that success was mine. I texted my little brother to share the good news. I showed Number Two exactly who he worked for. And if you don't get that reference, you probably don't like my story.