(Date: Friday, January 12, 1996)
swan wrote: "Fortunately, my arse is PRISTINE, thenkyewveddymuch! Not a "rhoid in sight. But then I seldom force the issue with grogans. I just let them mosey on out into the great wide world.
When I had my spinal surgery I experienced my body's *usual* reaction to hospitals. "God dammit, you put me in this pest hole, I'm not SHITTIN til we get HOME, you bastard!" and my bowels did their Fort Knox gig!"
Reminds me of the wretched week after I gave birth to my one and only child...I suffered what they called a "fourth-degree laceration" while hatching her...in other words, if you've ever heard the term "ripping someone a new asshole," well, this was it. Had something to do with the Nazi-from-Hell nurse who insisted on pushing down on my stomach... Fucking cow. Fran, if you are reading this, you are a sadistic cunt and I will delight in ripping your lungs out through your fat ass should I ever lay eyes on you again, you evil wretch.
The nurses told me that I couldn't go home until I crapped...
And crapping was not exactly on my A-list of "things-to-do"...at least not for the first two or three days...until things started getting a bit, well, slow...
The first day was no major thing...I had vomited up any remnants of the raw materials that are crucial to fecal production during labor, so I didn't expect to see any byproduct.
The second day, after eating a days' worth of hospital food, I came to the epiphanic conclusion that if I continued, I would have to unload some of the victuals in a form just slightly less palatable than had been ingested; and through an orifice so recently ill-used.
I engaged in an immediate campaign of avoidance...not difficult to do, as roomservice was limited to whatever slops horked up by the Dietary-Aides/Inmates-Doing-Mandatory-Community-Service...couldn't order out for a pizza, as my ex-had rifled my purse of every last penny, unbeknownst to me, before going out on an all-night drinking binge shortly after I told him the baby would be born that night...
I drew up a list of Foods I Would Never Eat Again so as to avoid Ever Shitting Again...I figured that if I never again ate foods that would make me go, then I'd never have to worry about it...I came across that list about a week or so ago when I was in my basement cleaning...it started, at the top of the list, with Cheese, Potatoes, Pizza, Steaks, etc., and ended with a list of things I would eat exclusively from that point on, such as Jello, Water, Chicken Soup, Lemonade, etc...
The third day, I was still bound up, and in no mood to let loose. The nurses kept bringing me glasses of prune juice, and I can tell you, it's not the prune juice itself that makes you go, it's the taste itself that's enough to make your sphincter twinch.
I have never had the indignity of an enema, lucky me, and hope I never do...if I do, I'll be sure to post the lurid details, complete with accompanying .GIF's and .MPEG's...no way were those witches going to give me the old bowel bath, the way my poor roto-rootered hindparts felt. I didn't want to alert them that they had a potential candidate for the old Squirt'n'Squeeze Feco-Blast Treatment...had to prompt them for something a bit more, inspirational, than prune juice and some kind of fiber pill, without them pulling out the rubber bag.
Day four brought the distinct feeling that I had a second child nestled firmly in my bowels, and creeping inexorably towards the one part of my anatomy I had sworn never to call upon again. If nature called, I swore, my bunghole was not going to answer the summons. Ever again. I was approaching desperation, but loathing of the Big Snaky Hose and his little rubber friend the Enema Bag overcame my dread of the Crap From Hell awaiting me in the Toilet Chamber of Horrors. But the fossilized mass in my nether regions tormented me day and night, precluding sleep, sitting, laughing, walking, or worse, bending over without feeling the concrete slab gouge and stretch my beleaguered equipment.
I went to the nurse's station, as they were the only ones who could see to my parole from the hospital, which by this time I was right tired of. I wanted a real laxative, something that would give me the soft and comfy grogan release I sought. Never before had I longed for a case of the LiquiShits, until then. They gave me some weird clear looking pill, and told me to drink plenty of water. No problem, as water was on the Good List.
My roomate had been Stripped and Ripped, so she was getting morphine shots every four hours. Lucky bitch. I'll do the Caesarian route next time myself, if there is a next time. I mentioned to the nurse that if she could see fit to slip me a few cc's of that, I'd be happy to settle in for a nice happy Dumparoo...no dice. They *want* you to suffer. I know that.
No luck.
Very unhappy, at the end of the fourth day, and still refusing anything on the rations tray that resembles a shit-producer, or shit in any way, I announced to the nurse's station that if they didn't give me something serious to make me go, REAL SOON, then *somebody* was going to have to take a hammer and CHISEL the shit out of there like CONCRETE. I waved off the proffered glass of BowlSqueezin's(tm), which they insisted on calling prune juice. Yeah, right, lady. I know darn well somebody is dishing it up out of the mens' room, third stall. Get me a six-pack of Budweiser, and I'll SHIT YOU A WHOLE MARCHING BAND! They looked flustered and shocked, and hurriedly scurried about to scribble some notes down in my chart, and offered me another clear pill. Grudgingly I accepted it, and trudged off to my room.
No way would they release me without producing some discernable scraps in the porcelain urn. My roomate was in no shape to donate to the cause; I would have to grin and bear it.
On the fifth day, I was so stir-crazy that I made up my mind that I would shit if it killed me, just to get out of there. And I believed that it probably would. I could see the obits the next day...Local Girl Dies of Complications of Childbirth.
I went into the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on the shower... somehow that helps, I don't know why. I truly believed that my innards were going to fall right out into the bowl, along with half my remaining blood supply. I cursed, I clung to the nice stainless steel handrail someone had so thoughtfully placed by the crapper, I strained...and realizing exactly why there was a big red emergency panic button strategically placed at hand's reach by the commode, I did the job. Or at least there was enough blood and chunky stuff in the crapper to convince the head nurse I really was back to normal and could go home.
The next two weeks was a balancing act between me and my lower digestive tract...we worked out an uneasy truce. I would give it enough food that it did not starve, but it would be food calculated to guarantee free'n'easy AquaShits, until I, and I alone, determined the fitness of Colon and Friends to resume duties. I nursed that case of the runs for close to a month, and only gradually eased back into a normal diet.
Things have never been the same since.
Virtuanna ;)
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