I must apologize for my last poor post. I was under the weather and not thinking well. I knew that I needed to share something and I think that I did. What it was, I don't think well when I am ailing. Again, so very sorry.

 

Super-dooper Pooper Stories

A friend posted on Facebook an article about the fifteen worst poop stories. Accidental evacuations to super clogged waste receptacles. My family would have some to add, including a few of my own. Let’s go back a few generations. I got a call from my mom asking me to give an enema to my grandfather, Beck. He hadn’t gone and me, being a nurse, was the prime candidate to complete this task. I fortunately escaped. While I was donning garb to make the trek, Mom called back, saying, “Your grandfather called. He had a ‘wonderful passage’.”

Now, to the other side, Granddad miner had come to the house for lunch, after being in the barn. We always wanted to sit beside him at the table. When my sister pulled her stepstool chair away from him, Grandma asked her “why?” Kathy said, “He don’t smell like no gardenia.”

My dad always had loose bowels and carried a wad of toilet paper in his back pocket for any type of emergency runs. When we hunted, my brother Ken commented, “I know that dad was here. There are shit-cicles on the bush over there.

My mom was the opposite and had to struggle to have a passage. She often told the story about the constipated mathematician, who worked it out with a pencil. It almost seemed apropos for to like this joke.

I take after both, fluctuating between the firm and the fluid. The need to go has struck in the most inappropriate places. Once in an under-construction building, it was necessary to unload. Another when I climbed to the top of a tree. The moon came out and my grandmother’s neighbor told her that she’d seen it all.

Many times, I have had to do the boot and scoot shuffle, with cheeks puckered tightly trying to make the marathon run to the toilet goal line. The hardest thing about this test of endurance is when I encounter a Mt. Everest of stairs. It is an almost unachievable roadblock, an insurmountable challenge.

My sister never speaks of her tragic waste removal other than her need to empty her bladder. It is often as formidable as the need for me to find a bathroom. Her husband often presses the issue by driving slowly, using the window washer and wipers, or just talking about consuming huge quantities of liquid.

To hear my brother speak, he only passes flatus and he is proud of that accomplishment. He doesn’t care who knows, he flaunts that it was him. It doesn’t matter whether it is ranked by a thunderous clap of noise or whether Saddam Hussein would have bottled the odorous detonation for use in biological warfare; he throws out his chest and claims it as his own.

I was a nurse for over thirty-five years and did a stint a corpsman and a nursing student before that. I have many more stool samples to share, butt not about my family, lest all of our secrets are made bare to the light.