UC me rollin’… [at Michael’s craft store]
HAPPY NEW YEAR! This week was a busy week for my body, also for some healing and of course pooping in my pants. (Didn’t think I was going to hit that in the first sentence did ya?) Well, last Tuesday was the first day back from Christmas vacation and I felt refreshed but tired and still awaiting lab results. The doctor needed to dissect my frozen fudge pop to make sure I didn’t have any bacteria in my belly abyss. I knew the answer to this…. NO. I HAVE ULCERATIVE COLITIS, but I humored the doctor and waited for the results. I recovered from bronchitis and a sinus infection so I was ready to go back to work. Of course, the doctor’s nurse called me while I was trying to teach a bunch of 4th graders complex rhythm. They always call in the most inconvenient of times. I’m either teaching a group of rambunctious students or when I’m trying to keep one of my toddlers from committing bodily harm to each other. The lovely nurses probably think I live at Chuck E. Cheese. She said, “good news, you don’t have a bacterial infection.” I screamed in my head “well DUH!” I stayed quiet and I obliged with a small sigh of relief as if it was welcoming news. Don’t test me, nurse, I respect you, I know you’re just doing your job. Then she hits me with the “Are you feeling better this week because your lab work came back normal.” I softly responded “No.” Nurse, I have an autoimmune disease, I constantly feel like I’m in pain whether it’s in my stomach, muscles, and joints. Again, I stay quiet. “Well your platelet counts are high, but everything else looks good.” I just wanted to yell at this poor nurse, but I stayed quiet for one more second. (Uncomfortable pause) “Ok so I’m bleeding a lot, and I am 34-year-old woman who has to wear an adult diaper. Please review the results again and please help me.” Her response, “Oh honey why didn’t you say so?” (I can’t win.) she then asked me if she could call me back later. (She did.) I was teaching opposites in music to kindergarteners. They were more interested in my conversation and code talk about my colon. I’m surprised she got my code talk, but I guess that’s normal. I’m sure she makes these calls 30 times a day. I think she understands when I say “but is it normal to have both strawberry syrup and chocolate sprinkles in the same bowl?” She scheduled me to see the doctor the following day. HOLD UP, all I had to say was I was bleeding out of my orifices so the doctor could see me right away. Cool, I hacked the gastroenterologist. Every time I call to make an appointment there they give me a date that’s at the very least 3 months away. “Ok, see you in a few months. I’ll let you know if I died from toxic megacolon.” (That’s a thing ya’ll)
I saw the doctor the next day after work and he never saw me. He sat on the computer and barely looked at me. I hate this. So I just made really awkward faces and attempted to do a meticulous routine of tutting while he looked away. I never got caught. He prescribed steroids and a mesalamine- a maintenance drug. Cool dropped off my prescription and waited. The pharmacy texted me to say they had none of my medications. And because of the impendinsnowstorm, they weren’t going to have it until Friday or Saturday. Thank goodness for snow days! Thursday and Friday I spent my time relaxing, within arms reach of my toilet, and wearing no pants. Ahhh the life. Finally got the call on Friday that my meds were ready. They told me that my meds were going to be $2,000 for a month’s supply. Wait for what? How much, cool here is my first born, my left leg, one of my kidneys, and I’ll throw in a coach wallet. Thankfully it was a paperwork error, but I realized there are people who suffer worse and have no insurance. A month’s worth of meds is $2,000. I can’t.
Obed went to pick them up and brought in a giant paper bag. I thought, “Cool, you got Chinese!” He passed me the Chinese food, I opened the bad, and to my surprise, it was not Chinese foods but a month’s supply of enemas. Twenty-eight enemas neatly packed in 4 boxes. There must be a mistake. I needed prednisone NOT enemas. I opened the boxes and sure enough. Beautifully tightly. packaged enemas labeled “hydrocortisone rectal suspension.” And if I was mistaken as to where this medication was applied there was a massive communiqué on the front of the box “FOR RECTAL USE ONLY.”
Way to start a new year… sheesh.
I begrudgingly take my “Chinese food” upstairs and place it at the corner of my delicately made bed. There it rested on my fluffy comforter and there I stared at it for a solid 20 minutes…. before I yelled, “THAT GOES WHERE?!”
Oh my gosh… oh my gosh, OH MY GOSH. I guess the excitement or anxiety of the forthcoming backside activities caused me to launch into the bathroom like I was a spaceship leaving Cape Canaveral; where I in fact never made it. I was steps away, and my malevolent colon just couldn’t hide its silly little chagrin. He had to make just one more appearance before I induced him into a medical coma via rectal steroids.
Now for the dance of the sugar plum removal of the soiled underpants fairy dance. Oh, the gaiety of it all. I’ve become a serious pro at this.
Showered, gave kids their baths, did a little dancing, a little more emergency pooping, bible story time…. then alas, alone with my enema. I turned down the lights, lit some candles, and put on Kenny G’s “Songbird” so I can get relaxed. Slid my finger under the box lid and slowly tore it open. Neatly packed were 7 little bottles and an instruction sheet. I unwrap the paper to read the directions and it was like the needle on the record player scratched and Kenny G was abruptly interrupted by a loud gasp; my loud gasp. These instructions (pictured below) were too much. “Assume the correct body position.” Oh, 28 days of this. 28 DAYS.
I did it. Without giving too many details, (because well a woman must have a little mystery to her) It was fine. Cold, but fine.
Next morning I wake up and I feel ok. No need to run to the bathroom. “Did this really work that fast?” I thought. It couldn’t of. Besides the doctor said it would take a couple weeks. I felt ok. I took out some markers in bed and started coloring. Before I knew it my two yr old was up and wanted to color with me. Well, not with me, but on the walls. I argued with my son about not coloring on the walls. I grabbed the marker from his hand and in his frustration, he flung my pack of 88 permanent drawing markers all over my side of the room. Uh oh. OH NO. It was payback time. My colon was waiting for the perfect opportunity to make me have to run to the loo. My colon wanted to get revenge on me for drowning it in steroids the night before. The decision had to be madequickly. Do I A. Leave an angry toddler with permanent markers all over the room so I can make it in time to the John or B. Clean up the markers quickly and get them out of reach then run to the toilet. Of course, I picked the latter. Bad choice. There I stood. 2 feet away from the toilet with the Hershey squirts down my leg. There we have it, folks.
Later on that day I felt a little better. I had the strength to go out with my family and go to the local craft store. Which takes us to the title of this post.
UC me rollin’… at Michael’s arts and crafts.
I knew what I wanted so it would be quick. I left with my 2 yr old and 4 yr old alone to the craft store while my hubs stayed in the Five Below next door. I grabbed my item to purchase and proceeded to walk towards the register. Along the way, I started getting that cold sweat. No, it can’t be. Could a colorless blender pencil really cause that much excitement? I unzipped my jacket. The heat and the pain were unbearable. I dragged my children in panic and started a search party for the restroom. I’m sweating so much because I dressed in several layers. It was negative temperatures. I can’t focus on a single thought, I could hear my children talking but I couldn’t understand what they wanted. Suddenly, a bright light and searing pain took over me.
Right there in the yarn section of Michael’s craft store, I let out a dangerous toot. A musical number entitled Fart Fantastique Opus No. 2 in my pants. Oh, my colon was as mad as deaf Beethoven. My daughter looked at me and with a saucy expression blurted out for all to hear, “Mami, did you poop you pants AGAIN?”
I threw my items to be purchased into a wall of yarn and waddled carefully the rest of the way to the bathrooms. My son and daughter were watching me do the underwear removal shuffle. I had to take off my shoes and socks and I made a large carpet out of the paper toilet seat covers because I did not want to touch the gross floors. The person in the other stall must have thought I was completely insane, but don’t worry my daughter made sure the lady in the neighboring stall knew, “It’s ok, don’t worry. My Mami just pooped her pants again.” I really had to focus. My children were genuinely grossed out by my poop. I was trying to slide out of my underwear with out making a mess and also try to keep my children from escaping the stall. I failed miserably. Poop was everywhere. So there I was cleaning the bathroom at Michael’s.
Husband to the rescue. He came to get the children while I continued the cleaning process. I had to throw away another pair of perfectly good undies. My colon rendered them practically useless. I walked outside in the negative temperatures with my jacket completely unzipped. At this point the cold air was exactly what I needed. To be quite honest, at these temperatures if I soiled myself again, it would just shoot out in powder form. Like those fancy liquid nitrogen desserts. We paid and I went home to shower, needed an adult diaper and rest. What. A. Day.
I have been wearing adult diapers daily since then. So to those young gentlemen at Walmart that checked out my derrière. I wasn’t trying to be a stumbling block to you. If my wedding ring wasn’t enough to deter you, maybe the simple fact that I am a 34 yr woman with a fluffy diaper bottom because I often poop my pants; will. Or maybe the fact that my back end probably looks like one of those red raw baboon butts from the amount of wiping I do. At any rate, all isn’t as it seems. I might look well on the outside, but boy oh boy, there is an angry colon inside who wants to destroy my positivity. He wants me to sulk about being sick. My colon wants to destroy me. I won’t let him. Colon… YOU WILL NEVER WIN.
These are the instructions to administer rectal steroids. This gave my colon “roid rage.”
Here’s the little bottle. Yes, it’s terrifying.
I got this.
(No I don’t actually.)