A Benefical Movement

Warning: This post contains themes, language of an adult nature and may not suit all audiences.

Two weeks post surgery, my bowels haven't moved. Not in the full orchestra crescendo kind of way that satisfies the constitution. Actually not even as a brass cymbal.

I know you all look at your bowel movements. I know this because your mother rewarded you when she trained you for your special prize. I know that you all think about bowel movements. Some of you talk about it more than anyone care's. Some of you take prunes on holidays and some of you would rather face constipation instead of going to a public toilet.

Yesterday writhing in agony far worse than child labour, I decided that it was time to go to Emergency. At the time I went I wasn't really sure what caused the deep pain on the right side that took my breath away. Doubled over and looking a ghastly grey, the triage team moved me right into a bed. Maybe my crutches and a stitched up leg induced some compassion from them.

A very gorgeous dark eyed, dark haired doctor comes into see me. He is breathtaking magnificent specimen of a man and introduces himself by his first name. He then checks me here and there with little result.  He then outlines the protocol he thinks best: an ultrasound, an xray, blood work and urine specimen. From these he will make his diagnosis

Do men have to wipe down and away too? They want you to pee just a little after you've cleaned everything with a towelette that might work for a Barbie doll. Once you have voided a little, you can pee right into that bottle. I need something much bigger like a milk jug. The yellow liquid indicates I am dehydrated and needing more fluids. The nurse Michelle had trouble finding a vein but that didn't stop her from poking three times. Finally a more experienced nurse came in and had the line in without further incidence. IV and morphine began to drip down into my system. Both brought a relief I hadn't had in three days. They tag me like a dog and I am now there's for the next few hours. I look at the skin around my band. When did it start to shrivel? When did the sagging first start? I don't remember but I make a mental note to be more diligent to lubricate.

I'm floating on a beach somewhere and sleepy. A porter comes along to take me to X-ray. B greets me and informs me that he just moved here from Grand Prairie. He knows what he is doing with the ultrasound and soon we have images of my internal organs up on the screen. He shows me a picture on iphone of a rancher driving his herd of cattle right through the main street of Turner Valley. He can't believe his good fortune seeing this red neck experience on his way to work.

Next I am wheeled into xray where a dark browed very cute slight man readies me to check on my lungs. He is from Saskatchewan and misses his home town of Moose Jaw. He has been here eight years but still thinks of him as Moose Jaw. He has a pleasant manner and I ask him if he has a lot of girls chasing him. He grins and tells me "No." I ask him if he runs? He used to. We exchange conversation and then he is gone. Those brows leave a pleasant image in my mind.

Another potter takes me back to emergency where we will wait for the results. I am sleepy and not really caring what happens next. I hear at the nurses' stations tidbits of conversation as they change shifts.

D2 needs a warm blanket.

D6 will be discharged.

D11 refused her full dosage of morphine. Wait a minute. I'm D11. I want to tell them I get such a buzz from half a dose why would I want more, but I can't muster the energy to make them aware of this.

Dr. Gorgeous comes back into the room and says "It is so humbling to run all these tests and still now have an explanation for your pain."

I wonder if he thinks I am faking this. He must read my mind: you colour and ketones suggest something is going on. Because you are here already, let's run a CT scan and that way we will have a complete picture.

A CT scan. Never had one of those before. The pain in my side starts to niggle again.

A nurse brings in four large tumblers of water with some solution Telebrix (this is not koolaid) and writes down a schedule for me to drink. I am so thirty I gulp one whole glass down within the minute.

No need to rush. You have until 18:50 p.m.

They bring a warm blanket and check in on me every 30 minutes to check my vitals. The pain increases on my side and I want to hold firmly down on it.

The cocktail finally done, I am after an additional 40 minutes taken to xray again but for a CT Scan. The girl is blond with the whitest teeth - I wonder what strips she uses but don't ask her. I wonder if she and Saskatchewan might dig each other. She informs me that I am going to have a dye injected into my IV and then I will feel warm. A voice from the machine tells me to breathe, hold, expire. I am in the middle of giant electronic doughnut that can talk. I obey. I pray that the source of this pain will identify itself. The test, now over, I wait in the hallway for a porter. The morphine has lost any benefit and I rock myself back and forth instinctively. It soothes me as I wait. I'm pretty sure I will spend the entire night in that hallway until finally a porter shows up.

It's been really busy. Are you going back to Emergency. Yes.

I'm wheeled into D11 and I see Bob waiting for me. He had gone home to walk the dog and to take care of some things. He looks tired and I wish he didn't have to spend his day off in emergency.

We wait. We discuss the basketball game and the kids and the trial where he will give evidence. Dr. Gorgeous comes in. He is now 3/4s into his shift and he has lost some of his freshness. Still he smiles and looks intent at me.

Your CT scan did not show anything profound. He mentions something about spirally growths on my spleen and that I need to see a GI specialist to have a biopsy and follow up. I don't think spirally growth sounds like fun but I can't seem to focus on asking any questions.

Basically there is nothing  in your vitals or the tests we ran to indicate the source of your pain; however, your bowels are very impacted all the way up.

FOS. I have just been diagnosed with full of sh..

Bob bursts our laughing. I ask the Dr. again "I am full of crap?"

Basically yes. This often occurs after surgery and narcotics. He prescribes something called ClearLax and tells me I can go home.

Ten hours and I am FOS.

When we get home, we head straight for bed. The whole day exhausted our strength and now the pain on the right side flairs up even more. I take the prescribed laxative and don't really care to eat ever again. I recall a documentary on poop I saw many years ago. Your poop tells you how you are, what you ate. The takeaway from that documentary was that a banana shaped poop was ideal. I have known and seen and been inspired and relieved by many a banana. Until now.

This morning Bob heads for his trial. I spend the day rocking myself and holding a hot water bottle against my stomach. No relief but it soothes me. I drink a two litres, another litre and then another. Nothing wrong on that end. I pee regularly but nothing else. I rub my lower belly willing that excrement to move.

I've talked to more people today about my bowels. Ladies don't talk about FOS. Ladies don't fart. I'm no lady today. Soon a dear friend brings me super dooper herbal tablets promising effective relief. She warns me to stay near a toilet. She shares a beautiful book with me and shows me her daughter's beautiful blog. We laugh and gossip on my bed. Another lady comes to walk Fernando and then visits with me. She shares her own BM stories and knows of what I speak. Later a dear friend and probably one of the most creative women I know brings me hand dipped chocolate prunes. We laugh. She is marvelous. My friend sends me an essay he wrote on being regular. My son and DIL entertain me and try to steer my thoughts away from the pain. I have some young women and their new leader visit. I love these girls and am sure they have never seen me looking like this. A mother comes over needing a reference letter for her son. Bob comes home from his trial ragged and weary. The day is gone. I have not gone.

I wait. Perhaps there will be a symphony tomorrow.