A few weeks ago a discussion about BMs reminded me about my experience with a particular surgery I had about 6 years ago and the resulting lack of poo.
Now one of the reasons people have issues with poo is that prior you're told not to eat or drink a few hours before going in, then you are not eating a few hours after going in. Your desire to eat is lessened even further for days, you are pumped full of pain medications (pain Rx cause constipation) and all of this results into the fact that the moisture content of your intestines is being absorbed back into your bloodstream rather helping to flush out the poo and that leaves each of these into crusty ol' hunks.
Add all of this to the fact that the anesthesia is a paralytic which causes your intestines to stop the contractions that push food through your intestinal tract down to your pooper shooter.
I found that no amount of using the salad shooter would help my pooper shooter.
The doctors and nurses on staff were quite insistent to find out if my frequent trips to the minuscule restroom in my shared room (another story since I had to share it with a dead woman) resulted in a floater, they were also concerned because I insisted on getting to my feet quickly walking the halls and showing that I was ready to return home as quickly as possible.
here's the beef -
show energy and ability
drop a log
equals = GO HOME
stay lackadaisical and depressed -
retain your feces
equals = STAY LONGER
My kitty's and husband wanted and needed me, my Temperpedic bed was a lot more comfortable and the privacy of my own bathroom sounded like a dream to me. I was pretty well tired of having my rest disturbed every hour to have someone check my blood pressure and temperature in the middle of the night, adjust the compression cuffs they put on your feet which I've now since forgotten the name for and annoyed the living Hell out of me.
I was positive they'd hired Nurse Ratchet to do my IVs because it was forever inserted at an awkward angle and causing me severe discomfort, mind you that I am one tough cookie when it comes to pain tolerance since I've suffered from FMS for most of my life.
Needless to say, I was ready to return home even if it meant telling a lil' white lie about a lil brown pile. What could it hurt, I poop pretty steady actually and have some issues using too much tissue. Everything should be regular the minute I have a great big glass of milk or a cup of corn.
The good patient was released, my lilly white ass to be seen no more trouncing through the hallways in my house-slippers and hospital gown. I returned home on the liquid diet they recommended to ease into my normal habits of ribeye steaks swimming in garlic butter and mashed potatoes with gravy. My culinary grace in full swing, I did not really take notice that everything was entering my pie hole but never exiting my bunghole until a week...two weeks..and finally clutching my stomach in agony the 3rd week was upon me.
Now I really was in so much discomfort, the 2nd week I felt when I sat down I was squatting on top of a bowling ball as well as having one lodged within my stomach, plus I was plummeting down in one of those Midway rides that you go up a hundred feet to be dropped down suddenly (Disney had one called Demon Drop). The intense pressure and G-forces would make your stomach feel like it was coming up and out of your throat, the feeling I had was reversed as if my stomach was being jammed down my shitter but nothing was going to come out except farts.
During this time of healing my 'help' in the house, a young lady we'll call Libby, was coming over with frequency because I should not be lifting. She'd gone from working 6 hours weekly to 10-12. Whenever she could pop over between work and school, she'd drop by and scoop litter boxes and wash some of my cats an get the garbage out. If she wanted to she could do anything else she wanted to but was never obligated to - I just got lucky and found myself a nice housekeeper in the mix. She would run the sweeper and even wash the dishes that might sit in the sink.
That final week where I was practically on deaths door from pain, I felt as if I did not crap someone would just have to shoot me and put me out of my misery, I finally decided that I would have to accept I needed to just ask someone what I could do. Already I'd gone the way of Fleet, Metamucil, Milk of Magnesia and drinking gallons of water in desperation of trying to flush out my demons but again I was dry as dust.
Sitting on the throne, my brow furrowed in consternation, sweat beading on my forehead, elbows digging into my thighs as I leaned in and grunted with effort nearly blowing an O-ring I was in tears from the lack of production... I finally would just fall to the floor, laying on the shagged rug listening to the exhaust fan and the reverberation of my sobs on the shower tiles.
I crawled back into bed, reached for my telephone and dialed the ER and with a pitiful voice I explained my situation. "Hello, yes I was there a few weeks ago for such an such surgery (ladies lower abdominal) and well, I haven't made a poo in over 2 weeks going on 3. I'm in a lot of discomfort (that's being nice - since I'm gasping for air after the sobs have subsided) and just don't know what else to do."
"Well you would have to come in and we would do digital dis-impaction (where the doctor or nurse use their fingers to help dislodge the hardened stool) or (in advanced cases) surgery."
"could you please tell me, when you say digital...your telling me someone's going to put their fingers in my ass?"
To which there was a little bit of an intake of breath, a giggle and then, "Yes ma'am that's about it. Basically someone is going to have to pluck it out for you. They will help flush it and dig it out."
"Well ummm thank you for letting me know, I think that I am going to give this a try with someone that already knows the ins and outs of my asshole and if it doesn't work then I'll go ahead and let someone else have a whack"
To which I hung up and cried a little more for the stupidity of letting this go for so long, then telephoned the husband and in a voice that lacked my vitality and verve I asked him to stop at the pharmacy for a box of rubber gloves, some Vaseline, another box of enemas and some Motrin.
This was going to be my own little surgery.
Dejected I hung up, laid my head down on the pillow and wept myself to sleep, curled into a fetal position as it was the only way I could find some comfort because of the heavy pain in my stomach and back. Oh I feel for you ladies that are pregnant and I am so grateful for the very reason I had that surgery, I will never get pregnant and have that great big fat miserable feeling!
Half way between sleep and wakefulness, I whine and moan to myself when I hear my front door open and thinking it's the husband I start to make little sounds from the bedroom which is down a long hallway from the door (which is slightly ajar and right next to the restroom which stands open and awaiting my dark delivery).
It's not my husband, it's Libby and she is not aware that I am home in bed, she says aloud, "OMG it stinks to high Heaven in here like some old person SHIT themselves and then DIED!"
She wandered first around the living room, picked up a few papers and tidied up all the while I could hear her..."Them cats couldn't make that smell, I wonder what happened in here? Someone musta ate something bad last night"
The farts escaping me were like deaths butterfly kisses, squeezing past my poo and blowing through the air to soak my home in the smell that permeates nursing homes.
Make sure you shit it's an important function in life.
Woe is me.
