I Hate Poop
How can a nurse be a nurse, if she can’t stand poop?
(The names of the individuals and minor details in this essay have been changed to protect their privacy)
I hate poop. I don’t care if you have long poops, skinny poops, green poops, soft poops, or pebble poops. Yet, because I’m your home health and hospice nurse, you think I want to hear about all the intricate details of your bowel regimen. Well, surprise: I don’t. Just because your day has been made by your nice poop, doesn’t mean mine has, too. All I need to know is if you went or not. So please, save it.
To be honest with you, maybe I shouldn’t even be a nurse. I mean, I barely made it through nursing school. I would cringe every time I had to help a person to the bathroom or deal with a poop issue. I pretended to need an extra hand every time I inhaled the scent of fecal matter so I wouldn’t have to bear the filth alone.
It was no surprise that when I finally graduated nursing school, I accepted a position as an RN in the newborn ICU, where I would only deal with micro-sized poops, all to avoid the big people poop. But somewhere along the way, I guess I decided I needed a change because here I am dealing with adults and their adult-sized dumps. God help me.
Last week I went to see Mr. McClelland who is on hospice for heart failure. He is ninety-nine years old, has the crappiest lungs I have ever listened to, and almost passes out every time he says more than two words. He is a cute man, who says he’s ready for the “The Big Sleep.” But I guess it’s not quite his time because the man upstairs hasn’t taken him yet.
His wife Dolores, answers the door that day. Her fluffy blonde wig is off-center and a few greys hairs are peeking out from underneath.
“Oh, Lisa. Perfect timing. I wanted you to take a look at something,” she says. I don’t know where Dolores is from, but she has a hint of a southern accent, where she draws out the end of words as slow as molasses. Most people might think this is delightful, but I find it annoying. I think it takes her two minutes just to say my name. Leeesssaaaaa.
She motions for me to follow her down the dark hallway and I follow behind. The teal pants that she is wearing are too long for her short legs, and they flop against the floor with each step she takes. Finally, we make it into the bathroom. I cannot figure out what we’re doing in this small space, because Mr. McClelland isn’t here.
“Take a look in there,” she says and motions towards the toilet. “Oh great, is this seriously happening?” I think to myself. I peer into the porcelain bowl and there it is. A turd. A normal looking turd exactly where it should be. In the toilet. I am so elated that she saved this disgusting piece of excrement just for me. I mean seriously, this is why I do this job, right? Just for these precious and sacred moments.
“It just looked a little thicker than normal,” she says. I am so annoyed that I hastily flush it down the toilet, while simultaneously trying to hide my frustration. For Christ’s sake, I have a dying patient in the bedroom next door and Dolores wants to talk about shit. Why? Why are some people so bowel obsessed? It even extends beyond their own bowel issues to having a genuine concern about their spouses’ bowel issues. Is that what love is?
“It looks perfectly fine,” I say trying not to sound too harsh. “I’m going to go visit with Mr. McClelland,” I tell her.
Although Mr. McClelland is breathing like he has just run a marathon, his face is soft and he looks happy. His demeanor doesn’t indicate that he was having any sort of poop problem. I approach him and when he sees me, his trembling hand reaches for mine. His dementia has gotten a little worse and I know he doesn’t remember who I am, but he tells me he is so happy that I came to visit him.
“Have….you….ever…..met a man……who has…..been to…..Pluto?” he struggles to ask me. The words bring a smile to my face and I laugh so hard that I forget all about Dolores and the turd.
“No, I actually haven’t, but that’s pretty impressive,” I say. He smiles back at me, closes his eyes, and falls asleep, just like that. I know there’s a reason I’m still in this job and it has got to be more than just about the poop.
