Hi,
I should have put the video clip in context. I'm playing with photos to work through experiences I had during the cancer fiasco.
The cancer hasn't returned all is well.
I can't send the file via email because of its size (even zipped) its too big. And I'm just guessing and finding my way around the imovie program. I'm sure there must be a setting in that which makes the video smaller. If anyone knows drop me a line.
So posting it here is the easiest way for me to show it.
All feedback is welcome. : )
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Thursday, October 30, 2008
why?
is it the medical profession has absolutely no idea of who is on their table? How is it they can root around inside of you and not know anything about you? Why are they like this? Why do they only see a piece of meat on a table and are only interested in their specific cut of meat?
Why is it that this profession, whom we pass our lives over, do not listen to us. Us who have lived in this body for all our lives?
We have come so far from the who. Now they concentrate on the numbers on their screen...the pulse rate, the blood pressure to tell if the patient is in trouble. While i lay there with hands holding my head and my body trembling. and he says it doesn't hurt there's no nerve endings here. i cannot talk. i realize the only way he will listen is if i can get that pulse rate up. He sees and believes the machine. Now softer words: "we're almost done...it'll be over soon."
He is done the nurse begins to put the blankets about me again. I begin to take the pulse thingy off my finger and undo the cuff. I want off this gurney. I want out of this room. I want out of this hospital. No she says. I have to take your vitals. You've had a dilation you'll have to wait for a half hour. She pushes me out to the recovery room. They barely know I'm here. Just another body. I hear the nurse who wheeled me out say 3 times she just had a dilation. Someone finally acknowledges her. Me they ignore. After 15 minutes I'm offered some juice. I drink two down quickly I'm dehydrated. I began to explain about ileostomy...she's too busy to listen. Finally she comes back I know its not quite 30 minutes. I just want out. And I put on my best face and my best oh you are so busy and and thank you and and and and and and....she says its close enough I'll get you clothes. I change like superman...one spin and I am a person again. I ask to use the phone to call my pick up. Answering machine cuts in. I fake it and say ok 5 minutes in a specific entrance. I thank the nurse for her attention and remark once again on what a busy day she is having and leave with a thank you falling from my forked tongue. I walk until I see smokers. I ask for one saying I just had a procedure and i came with no money or anything....they see me .... they hear me....without hesitation offer me a choice of two brands.
I walk as fast as I can so no one can tell where i have come from where i have been what has been done to me. its over. Bile fills the back of my throat and I continue to walk...remember rescue remedy in my pocket...my pace slows down. Now i am angry. Angry that the words of all the trusted medical professionals I had advocate on my behalf were tossed away like a used johnny coat.
I arrive at my friend's house she's shocked to see me on her door step. She listens to my account and makes up the couch and brings me food and drink. I drug myself. I watch tv. I make phone calls to the trusted professionals to let them know it didn't work. They should know this for the ones behind me. I sleep. I am fed a delicious meal and chocolate is in abundance. I can survive anything with chocolate. We watch a silly movie and laugh.
Time to sleep I go to a clean inviting bed. My feline friend has her bath beside me. I try to read...my brain is teflon...sentences don't stick. Paragraphs are mountains. I turn out the light. My brain will not shut down even with the drugs. I can't bare this awakeness...I can't bare the flash memory of the day. I can't bare doing this for 8 hours until morning comes and my hostess awakens. I just can't bare thinking and thoughts and memories and humiliation and pain and not being seen and breathing.
As quietly as i can i dress, write a note, and feel my way down stairs...thank goddess i know this house well...i know where my keys are, i know where my car is, i have all that i need to get home.
Home where I can purge. Home where there is enough drugs to knock me out. Home where I will disturb no one and no one can disturb me. My cave. Where I can hibernate and get ready for the next encounter with the health "care" system.
Why is it that this profession, whom we pass our lives over, do not listen to us. Us who have lived in this body for all our lives?
We have come so far from the who. Now they concentrate on the numbers on their screen...the pulse rate, the blood pressure to tell if the patient is in trouble. While i lay there with hands holding my head and my body trembling. and he says it doesn't hurt there's no nerve endings here. i cannot talk. i realize the only way he will listen is if i can get that pulse rate up. He sees and believes the machine. Now softer words: "we're almost done...it'll be over soon."
He is done the nurse begins to put the blankets about me again. I begin to take the pulse thingy off my finger and undo the cuff. I want off this gurney. I want out of this room. I want out of this hospital. No she says. I have to take your vitals. You've had a dilation you'll have to wait for a half hour. She pushes me out to the recovery room. They barely know I'm here. Just another body. I hear the nurse who wheeled me out say 3 times she just had a dilation. Someone finally acknowledges her. Me they ignore. After 15 minutes I'm offered some juice. I drink two down quickly I'm dehydrated. I began to explain about ileostomy...she's too busy to listen. Finally she comes back I know its not quite 30 minutes. I just want out. And I put on my best face and my best oh you are so busy and and thank you and and and and and and....she says its close enough I'll get you clothes. I change like superman...one spin and I am a person again. I ask to use the phone to call my pick up. Answering machine cuts in. I fake it and say ok 5 minutes in a specific entrance. I thank the nurse for her attention and remark once again on what a busy day she is having and leave with a thank you falling from my forked tongue. I walk until I see smokers. I ask for one saying I just had a procedure and i came with no money or anything....they see me .... they hear me....without hesitation offer me a choice of two brands.
I walk as fast as I can so no one can tell where i have come from where i have been what has been done to me. its over. Bile fills the back of my throat and I continue to walk...remember rescue remedy in my pocket...my pace slows down. Now i am angry. Angry that the words of all the trusted medical professionals I had advocate on my behalf were tossed away like a used johnny coat.
I arrive at my friend's house she's shocked to see me on her door step. She listens to my account and makes up the couch and brings me food and drink. I drug myself. I watch tv. I make phone calls to the trusted professionals to let them know it didn't work. They should know this for the ones behind me. I sleep. I am fed a delicious meal and chocolate is in abundance. I can survive anything with chocolate. We watch a silly movie and laugh.
Time to sleep I go to a clean inviting bed. My feline friend has her bath beside me. I try to read...my brain is teflon...sentences don't stick. Paragraphs are mountains. I turn out the light. My brain will not shut down even with the drugs. I can't bare this awakeness...I can't bare the flash memory of the day. I can't bare doing this for 8 hours until morning comes and my hostess awakens. I just can't bare thinking and thoughts and memories and humiliation and pain and not being seen and breathing.
As quietly as i can i dress, write a note, and feel my way down stairs...thank goddess i know this house well...i know where my keys are, i know where my car is, i have all that i need to get home.
Home where I can purge. Home where there is enough drugs to knock me out. Home where I will disturb no one and no one can disturb me. My cave. Where I can hibernate and get ready for the next encounter with the health "care" system.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
holding
Fear like an umbilical cord is wrapped about my neck.
Intestines are like pirates knots.
Fighting for a breath.
Anxiety overtakes me in a line up
I have to jump out of my skin.
Today’s list of activities crumbles
like a forgotten biscuit in my pocket.
Intestines are like pirates knots.
Fighting for a breath.
Anxiety overtakes me in a line up
I have to jump out of my skin.
Today’s list of activities crumbles
like a forgotten biscuit in my pocket.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Li'l Squirt breaks taboos
INTERVIEW NOTES
Title: Everything you ever wanted to know about the Li’l Squirt and were afraid to ask.
Date: October 2, 2008
This is an interview with Li’l Squirt aka Carol's stoma.
QUESTION 1: HOW DID YOU GET YOUR NAME?
Reply: Li’l Squirt is a term of endearment for a kid. Typically they are mischievous, one never knows what they are going to do, and they can be a bit embarrassing and forever up to something. I on the go all day and all night….24/7.
QUESTION 2: WHERE DO YOU LIVE?
Reply: I’m kind of like the person who wears their heart on their sleeve. Only in Carol’s case she wears her bum on her belly. Carol does make me a neat little tent on her stomach. That’s where I hang out (excuse the pun).
QUESTION 3: DESCRIBE YOUR TENT FOR ME.
Reply: Typically Carol begins like we all do when picking a campsite. We clean up all the debris lying around…in my site its usually glue and other shit (catch that pun?) that I won’t go into. First we put down a ground cover called an Eakin Seal. We have to make sure it’s warmed up because then it sticks better. We put it nice and close to where I am so the tent can be pitched perfectly above me. Then we get out what would be the floor of the tent (which is called a flange) and put it down so that it covers the ground sheet (Eakin Seal). Then comes my beige coloured test. We place that over the floor of the tent which has a round ring embedded in it. We have to line the tent up perfectly with the ring on the floor once we have there is a perfect little click sound…music to our ears. And like all tents its very important to peg me down so I don’t move around. Well we can’t use pegs obviously. So on my tent I have a little white lock that secures me to the floor of the tent. And viola I’m up!!! I feel secure and cozy in my tent. Its waterproofed with a plastic material on the inside and a beige canope over the top. What is neat is once we turn the gas on (get that one?) the tent warms up in a jiffy. Toasty.
You’ve heard of a philatelist well I’m a bit of a collector myself. I’m what you call a flatulanist. And if you can imagine having a balloon taped to your belly then you have a good idea of what my tent looks like after a good day of collecting. Carol tires of my collection and unlocks the tent and all my farts escape. This summer while in Muskoka I endeavoured to convince Carol the value of my collection. With a solid collection of flatulence I am the perfect PFD…. great for canoeing and swimming. She didn’t go for it. I think there's a niche market out there. I've applied to go on the Dragon's Den but don't tell Carol.
QUESTION 4: SO HOW HAS LIFE BEEN LIVING WITH CAROL?
Reply: Initially it was horrid. She didn’t want anything to do with me. And she hurtfully called me “hideous”. I felt like a third leg…an unwanted appendage. We were in constant battle and I own up I retaliated by giving her shit (excuse the pun) more than once. I went up one side of her and down the other. And many a times I glued her pubes! Now we get along better…oh she still has her days when she can’t stand to look at me and I admit sometimes while she’s asleep I take the opportunity to let my flatulanist side come out. (yet another pun). My tent is like a helium balloon and comes off its mooring. Inevitably that’s when the shit hits the fan between us. She wakes up and well the rest she’s already told you about. What can I say…I come by my name honestly….and I do enjoy getting a new tent.
QUESTION 5: THANK YOU FOR YOUR CANDOR IS THERE ANYTHING YOU’D LIKE TO ADD?
Reply: Well there was this one time when I caught this MAMMOTH SIZE GREAT BIG FART and
INTERVIEWER: OH I’M SORRY WE’VE RUN OUT OF TIME.
Title: Everything you ever wanted to know about the Li’l Squirt and were afraid to ask.
Date: October 2, 2008
This is an interview with Li’l Squirt aka Carol's stoma.
QUESTION 1: HOW DID YOU GET YOUR NAME?
Reply: Li’l Squirt is a term of endearment for a kid. Typically they are mischievous, one never knows what they are going to do, and they can be a bit embarrassing and forever up to something. I on the go all day and all night….24/7.
QUESTION 2: WHERE DO YOU LIVE?
Reply: I’m kind of like the person who wears their heart on their sleeve. Only in Carol’s case she wears her bum on her belly. Carol does make me a neat little tent on her stomach. That’s where I hang out (excuse the pun).
QUESTION 3: DESCRIBE YOUR TENT FOR ME.
Reply: Typically Carol begins like we all do when picking a campsite. We clean up all the debris lying around…in my site its usually glue and other shit (catch that pun?) that I won’t go into. First we put down a ground cover called an Eakin Seal. We have to make sure it’s warmed up because then it sticks better. We put it nice and close to where I am so the tent can be pitched perfectly above me. Then we get out what would be the floor of the tent (which is called a flange) and put it down so that it covers the ground sheet (Eakin Seal). Then comes my beige coloured test. We place that over the floor of the tent which has a round ring embedded in it. We have to line the tent up perfectly with the ring on the floor once we have there is a perfect little click sound…music to our ears. And like all tents its very important to peg me down so I don’t move around. Well we can’t use pegs obviously. So on my tent I have a little white lock that secures me to the floor of the tent. And viola I’m up!!! I feel secure and cozy in my tent. Its waterproofed with a plastic material on the inside and a beige canope over the top. What is neat is once we turn the gas on (get that one?) the tent warms up in a jiffy. Toasty.
You’ve heard of a philatelist well I’m a bit of a collector myself. I’m what you call a flatulanist. And if you can imagine having a balloon taped to your belly then you have a good idea of what my tent looks like after a good day of collecting. Carol tires of my collection and unlocks the tent and all my farts escape. This summer while in Muskoka I endeavoured to convince Carol the value of my collection. With a solid collection of flatulence I am the perfect PFD…. great for canoeing and swimming. She didn’t go for it. I think there's a niche market out there. I've applied to go on the Dragon's Den but don't tell Carol.
QUESTION 4: SO HOW HAS LIFE BEEN LIVING WITH CAROL?
Reply: Initially it was horrid. She didn’t want anything to do with me. And she hurtfully called me “hideous”. I felt like a third leg…an unwanted appendage. We were in constant battle and I own up I retaliated by giving her shit (excuse the pun) more than once. I went up one side of her and down the other. And many a times I glued her pubes! Now we get along better…oh she still has her days when she can’t stand to look at me and I admit sometimes while she’s asleep I take the opportunity to let my flatulanist side come out. (yet another pun). My tent is like a helium balloon and comes off its mooring. Inevitably that’s when the shit hits the fan between us. She wakes up and well the rest she’s already told you about. What can I say…I come by my name honestly….and I do enjoy getting a new tent.
QUESTION 5: THANK YOU FOR YOUR CANDOR IS THERE ANYTHING YOU’D LIKE TO ADD?
Reply: Well there was this one time when I caught this MAMMOTH SIZE GREAT BIG FART and
INTERVIEWER: OH I’M SORRY WE’VE RUN OUT OF TIME.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
how much more aggressive can you get!
Just home from seeing the surgeon. As I expected the reversal can't happen without dealing with the stenosis further along the colon. If we did I might blow up and die....cuz the poo couldn't get pass the narrowing. So I tell the surgeon the doctor who did the first dilation said he wasn't anxious to try it again given what happened the first time they tried it in May. I ended up in hospital a few hours later with a temperature of 104 and it took 6 days and 3 different antibiotics to bring me back to homeostastis. So the surgeon says to me today: "I'll talk to that doctor and if he doesn't want to do it I'll get one of his colleague who is more aggressive to do it!"
Lord love a duck. I have had it up to my eye balls with having this body prodded, poked, stapled, stitched, deprived of food and water for 9 days, sliced, pried open, things stuck up into me and given drugs that nearly killed me. Now we're going to find someone who'll be *more* aggressive. Is there no end to the mafia style treatment of the health *care* system.
And then to add insult to injury on my way home from the appointment the *^%$^&# ileostomy paraphernalia sprung yet another leak! This is the 5th leak in 7 days! Thankfully 2 happened while I was up. The other 5 were in bed. I've had a few late nights. I am as clean as a crisp white shirt on the first day of school. And this is truly a time when my body is speaking my mind: "I want this g-d bag off of me!!!!"
So we'll try another couple of dilations. I remember when the only part of my body that got dilated were my pupils....ahhhh those were the days filled with chuckles and uncontrolled laughing. Hell, damn, shit, poop, fart....how long ago were those days! Now my days are taken with thoughts of pooping and farting....and I yearn for those times perhaps even more than the drug induced laughter. (maybe...i did have some stupendous laughs)
I am not too hopeful that the November surgery will happen. Now with the decision to try the dilation again means waiting for appointments to do those and then to see if they work. Which more than likely means I will have to have another one of those jesusly tests where they fill my bum with dye. Last time I had that it was a nightmare. And I was cursing like a sailor on the steel slab I was lying on. (i did apologize after...it hurt like hell).
I have to call the surgeon's secretary on Monday to see what she can arrange for the dilations. And talk about looking for a silver lining....on my way home with poo leaking out...I was thinking maybe they could do me during Christmas...I bet no one wants to be in hospital for Christmas. I wouldn't mind being there. It would take care of the most dreaded annual question for singles: WHAT WILL I DO FOR CHRISTMAS?
Santa could bring me morphine. not a bad way to see the end of this year at all!!!
Lord love a duck. I have had it up to my eye balls with having this body prodded, poked, stapled, stitched, deprived of food and water for 9 days, sliced, pried open, things stuck up into me and given drugs that nearly killed me. Now we're going to find someone who'll be *more* aggressive. Is there no end to the mafia style treatment of the health *care* system.
And then to add insult to injury on my way home from the appointment the *^%$^&# ileostomy paraphernalia sprung yet another leak! This is the 5th leak in 7 days! Thankfully 2 happened while I was up. The other 5 were in bed. I've had a few late nights. I am as clean as a crisp white shirt on the first day of school. And this is truly a time when my body is speaking my mind: "I want this g-d bag off of me!!!!"
So we'll try another couple of dilations. I remember when the only part of my body that got dilated were my pupils....ahhhh those were the days filled with chuckles and uncontrolled laughing. Hell, damn, shit, poop, fart....how long ago were those days! Now my days are taken with thoughts of pooping and farting....and I yearn for those times perhaps even more than the drug induced laughter. (maybe...i did have some stupendous laughs)
I am not too hopeful that the November surgery will happen. Now with the decision to try the dilation again means waiting for appointments to do those and then to see if they work. Which more than likely means I will have to have another one of those jesusly tests where they fill my bum with dye. Last time I had that it was a nightmare. And I was cursing like a sailor on the steel slab I was lying on. (i did apologize after...it hurt like hell).
I have to call the surgeon's secretary on Monday to see what she can arrange for the dilations. And talk about looking for a silver lining....on my way home with poo leaking out...I was thinking maybe they could do me during Christmas...I bet no one wants to be in hospital for Christmas. I wouldn't mind being there. It would take care of the most dreaded annual question for singles: WHAT WILL I DO FOR CHRISTMAS?
Santa could bring me morphine. not a bad way to see the end of this year at all!!!
Monday, September 22, 2008
Poo!
Sept. 4, 2008 5 a.m.
I am somewhere between awake and dreaming. I feel the remnants of a lover beside me. Moisture. Heat against my leg. My belly. I linger. I rest. I wait for sleep to dissolve to once again be awash in our desires. My yearning opens my eyes…I am curious to see who lays beside me. Who has caressed my body to such an outpouring of lust?
Awake now I find I am alone. Yet the wetness is still about me. I think of young boys who surprise themselves with wet dreams.
Surely I am far too old for this kind of thing. I look further across the bed. No one. I look beneath the sparking white Egyptian cotton duvet. I find her.
A fucking empty ileostomy bag! I lay in a puddle of poop. I jump up only to have the Lil Squirt spew across the covers some more. I am in action tearing the sheets from the bed while she drips her fluids down my belly, my leg and splatters on the floor.
Jesus I am making more mess.
Grab a cloth and press it into me. Attempting to contain it… is like trying to stop an arterial wound. My senses are more alert as I see the complicated mess I am in. I grab the resting bag from my poo soaked sheets. It’s covered. Yet I clip it on and head toward the bathroom where a clean one sits tucked away. I discard the sleeping bag and adorn myself with a clean one. It sits upon my pooped up belly.
I rush back to the bedroom strip the bed. And take the bottom poop puddled sheet and toss it in the toilet. Run back and pull the mattress cover (Jenny so generously let me borrow) off and toss it in the bathtub turn the cold water on blast. Return to grab the duvet trying to keep the poo stain in one place…. rush back to the bathroom and put that part in the sink with cold water gushing. Return to the bedroom to surprisingly find the pillowcase has not escaped…back to the bathroom…where do I put it…I stand there trying to figure out where to put it…then I look down and the thick luxurious snow white bath mat has not escaped the Lil Squirt's drippings. Overwhelmed I throw everything into the bathtub. Finally I have all my shit soaking.
Then I look down…. way down and I see I am covered from head to toe. I have to shower. I look to the bathtub…. there is no room for me…. I could cry…. then I remember a very wise woman Liz White saying to me…its only shit!
My methodical brain kicks in. Clean the bedding first…. I start with what’s in the tub…run downstairs to get the spray and wash. (At this level of excretion poo is really acidic and stains worse than anything). Duvet first…. spray, scrub, scrub, scrub. Pillow cases…. spray, scrub, scrub, scrub. Run down to the basement with watery poo dripping like an oil leak from a car. I fill the washer putting anything and everything that has anything with laundry written on it in the water. OK one load started.
Head upstairs and like Hansel and Gretel follow my droppings back to the bathroom. Next the sheet in the toilet.
Holy Mother of Jesus. Spray, scrub, spray, scrub and scrub some more. Fling it to the far reaches of the tub to scrub and spray and scrub the white almost out of the mattress cover. Now where to put it so it does not re-pooped on. Ah the tub in the basement is logical cuz it will go in after the duvet is done. Run downstairs leaving my Hansel and Gretel markings. Stand next to the sink…realize the washer empties into the tub…catastrophe diverted. Good. Now where can I put it as the watery poo puddles on the basement floor. With my deer in the headlights stare I gaze upon and beyond a bucket…some part of my brain un-dissociates and Eureka a place to put the Motherfooking load.
Do my Hansel and Gretel dance back upstairs…. the mat…. it weights a ton with poo and now water soaked. More spraying and scrubbing…. I think of Cinderella while on my knees… (a half hour ago I thought I had been asleep with my knightess in shining armour…HA! Ain't a glass slipper fitting on these shit-encrusted toes.) The mat cleaned I have to find another spot…ah the laundry basket it has a solid bottom and is partial enclosed…tho there is a lot of water in this mat…to hell with it…. in the basket it goes. Now everyone is lined up downstairs to wait their turn in the washer.
Finally I can get in the shower. I remove the bag so I can get all the poo collected around the stoma clean… I wash and scrub and scrub and wash…. the Squirt is still squirting and I am having to clean different parts of my body over and over…I wait for a lull…. grab a face clothe stuff down Lil Squirt mouth and dry as quick as I can…. and with the timing of an Olympic runner coming out of the blocks my timing is exquisite as I click the bag back on.
Its now 7a.m. The store will be open. I buy a coffee and cigarettes…. today I will smoke. I come home…move the computer outside and begin writing the tale of my shitty lover as my duvet, mattress cover, bottom sheet, 5 pillow, bath mat, and my treasured mattress pad (found it had stained too) flaps in the wind.
Moral of the story:
Beware of your own shit!
Ps. Did I ever tell you about the time my niece was overdue with her first child and I dreamt her water broke. As I woke I thought I bet it was a message Cindy has had her baby…. a second later I realized I am in a pool of water…the cap to my water bottle had come loose during the night. My water had broken not Cindy's.
I am somewhere between awake and dreaming. I feel the remnants of a lover beside me. Moisture. Heat against my leg. My belly. I linger. I rest. I wait for sleep to dissolve to once again be awash in our desires. My yearning opens my eyes…I am curious to see who lays beside me. Who has caressed my body to such an outpouring of lust?
Awake now I find I am alone. Yet the wetness is still about me. I think of young boys who surprise themselves with wet dreams.
Surely I am far too old for this kind of thing. I look further across the bed. No one. I look beneath the sparking white Egyptian cotton duvet. I find her.
A fucking empty ileostomy bag! I lay in a puddle of poop. I jump up only to have the Lil Squirt spew across the covers some more. I am in action tearing the sheets from the bed while she drips her fluids down my belly, my leg and splatters on the floor.
Jesus I am making more mess.
Grab a cloth and press it into me. Attempting to contain it… is like trying to stop an arterial wound. My senses are more alert as I see the complicated mess I am in. I grab the resting bag from my poo soaked sheets. It’s covered. Yet I clip it on and head toward the bathroom where a clean one sits tucked away. I discard the sleeping bag and adorn myself with a clean one. It sits upon my pooped up belly.
I rush back to the bedroom strip the bed. And take the bottom poop puddled sheet and toss it in the toilet. Run back and pull the mattress cover (Jenny so generously let me borrow) off and toss it in the bathtub turn the cold water on blast. Return to grab the duvet trying to keep the poo stain in one place…. rush back to the bathroom and put that part in the sink with cold water gushing. Return to the bedroom to surprisingly find the pillowcase has not escaped…back to the bathroom…where do I put it…I stand there trying to figure out where to put it…then I look down and the thick luxurious snow white bath mat has not escaped the Lil Squirt's drippings. Overwhelmed I throw everything into the bathtub. Finally I have all my shit soaking.
Then I look down…. way down and I see I am covered from head to toe. I have to shower. I look to the bathtub…. there is no room for me…. I could cry…. then I remember a very wise woman Liz White saying to me…its only shit!
My methodical brain kicks in. Clean the bedding first…. I start with what’s in the tub…run downstairs to get the spray and wash. (At this level of excretion poo is really acidic and stains worse than anything). Duvet first…. spray, scrub, scrub, scrub. Pillow cases…. spray, scrub, scrub, scrub. Run down to the basement with watery poo dripping like an oil leak from a car. I fill the washer putting anything and everything that has anything with laundry written on it in the water. OK one load started.
Head upstairs and like Hansel and Gretel follow my droppings back to the bathroom. Next the sheet in the toilet.
Holy Mother of Jesus. Spray, scrub, spray, scrub and scrub some more. Fling it to the far reaches of the tub to scrub and spray and scrub the white almost out of the mattress cover. Now where to put it so it does not re-pooped on. Ah the tub in the basement is logical cuz it will go in after the duvet is done. Run downstairs leaving my Hansel and Gretel markings. Stand next to the sink…realize the washer empties into the tub…catastrophe diverted. Good. Now where can I put it as the watery poo puddles on the basement floor. With my deer in the headlights stare I gaze upon and beyond a bucket…some part of my brain un-dissociates and Eureka a place to put the Motherfooking load.
Do my Hansel and Gretel dance back upstairs…. the mat…. it weights a ton with poo and now water soaked. More spraying and scrubbing…. I think of Cinderella while on my knees… (a half hour ago I thought I had been asleep with my knightess in shining armour…HA! Ain't a glass slipper fitting on these shit-encrusted toes.) The mat cleaned I have to find another spot…ah the laundry basket it has a solid bottom and is partial enclosed…tho there is a lot of water in this mat…to hell with it…. in the basket it goes. Now everyone is lined up downstairs to wait their turn in the washer.
Finally I can get in the shower. I remove the bag so I can get all the poo collected around the stoma clean… I wash and scrub and scrub and wash…. the Squirt is still squirting and I am having to clean different parts of my body over and over…I wait for a lull…. grab a face clothe stuff down Lil Squirt mouth and dry as quick as I can…. and with the timing of an Olympic runner coming out of the blocks my timing is exquisite as I click the bag back on.
Its now 7a.m. The store will be open. I buy a coffee and cigarettes…. today I will smoke. I come home…move the computer outside and begin writing the tale of my shitty lover as my duvet, mattress cover, bottom sheet, 5 pillow, bath mat, and my treasured mattress pad (found it had stained too) flaps in the wind.
Moral of the story:
Beware of your own shit!
Ps. Did I ever tell you about the time my niece was overdue with her first child and I dreamt her water broke. As I woke I thought I bet it was a message Cindy has had her baby…. a second later I realized I am in a pool of water…the cap to my water bottle had come loose during the night. My water had broken not Cindy's.
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