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.

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.

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.