My intestinal workings have been...muddled since I took a tumble, mostly due to pain killers and odd dietary restrictions. While in the hospital, I ate almost nothing and sloughed off enough weight so that I was below my wedding day number, even though at the time of my wedding I was completely unable to lose another quarter pound despite hardly eating at all.
After the hospital, my family basically force-fed me, which was probably good because I couldn't exactly stand on my stork legs (still had the belly bulge, though - that thing will not DIE), and so I eventually gained all of the weight back (and a hell of a lot more). After about a week of eating five meals a day and laying either in bed or on the couch all of the time, I realized I hadn't yet felt the slightest need to take a shit.
Me? NOT SHIT? That was absurd.
I was already taking colace and Senekot to combat the poop-related effects of the pain killers, but still. Nothing. Not prune juice, not fruit, not laxatives.
Finally, after nearly two weeks, I felt something simmering in the lower furnace and I hustled (be it slowly, and with family chiding, "Where are you going? I can get it for you!" in the background) to the toilet, bore down with all of my might, and popped out several minuscule pellets of shit. Like a rabbit, I was.
That continued until I finally upped the doses of stool softener (every moment expecting to feel the tickle of a human-height turd tickle the back of my throat, hell-bent on escape however necessary) and the shower of pebbles increased until they almost made up the quantity of a normal Cat poop.
Eventually, my bowel movements were the talk of the household. Each time I emerged victorious from the loo, I'd raise my hands in victory and declare, "I WENT!" to the exclamations of my father, step-mom, and husband. And probably dog. It's hard to tell with him.
When the day came that a normal, non-rabbit shaped poop emerged like the sweet, sweet result of a love affair between a banana and a piece of granite, there were tears in my eyes.
No really. It hurt fucking bad, and it cracked open my ass, too. Fissures, if you please.
Eventually, things got back to normal (in the poop department)((mostly)) and I'm happy to report that I have ceased to bleed from every orifice of my body. (Did I mention I no longer ovulate? Yeah, apparently that's thanks to trauma. I'm hoping that comes back, too, so that we can. YOU KNOW. Have a family.)
Until the other night.
I was driving home when the sudden, unexpected urge to POOP! overcame me, and try as I might, I knew I could not resist the call of nature long enough to make it all the way home, so I detoured to a gas station, where I delivered what felt like a watermelon through my ass and into the toilet bowl, leaving more blood behind, and although I flushed, the turd remained.
It remained because it was positioned like the world's most horrifying bridge over the opening in the toilet and it wouldn't move despite repeated swearing and flushing maneuvers.
Terrified of leaving a Barbie-sized shit bridge for someone else to take care of (actually, I was worried I'd open the door and someone would be waiting to use the restroom, thereby KNOWING it was me who'd left the chocolate melon in my wake), I decided to take action.
I reached in and re-positioned my own shit. With my hand.
Now if that isn't taking charge of my life...then thank fucking god because I never want to do that again so long as I live.
Or so long as I'm sober.