There's No Nice Way To Say This

This blog is real. The things that are happening to me are real. And for some reason, I feel compelled to share.

I think part of it is the journalist in me. It is the truth. These are the facts. I think the other part is if you are taking the time to read this, I want you to understand what cancer is really like. So I apologize in advance for this post. But it happened.

A few weeks ago, when I was really sick, I had an accident. That's to say I didn't make it to the bathroom in time. At 32 years old, I suffered a total loss of bowel control. In other words, I pooped my pants. Alright, let's just call it what it was: I shit myself.

Looking back, it was a perfect storm. I was taking pain medication because everything hurt so badly. So I took some Senokot so I didn't get all backed up. I was having belly pain anyway, like a constant, low grumbling. Not like I was hungry, just a dull, all the time ache. Then my blood pressure was very low. Standing up quickly became a dangerous game. It all led to this one moment.

Chris had gone to work, Marcia would be over in just a little while. It was that sweet spot of time, like 20 minutes, that I lost it. Of course. I could tell I had to go to the bathroom. I sat up in bed slowly. But because of my blood pressure, I'd had a routine: go from laying down to sitting up and sit there for 2 full minutes (which is like an eternity when you are looking at the clock), let the blood equalize in my body. Then stand up next to the bed and wait two minutes. This way, if I was going to faint again at least I would be near the bed, not near the flagstone floor in the foyer which would surely leave me with a brain injury if I hit the deck there. But there was no time for this routine. I was in bad shape.

I sit up and think quickly. Just run to the bathroom? Stand slowly and clamp your ass cheeks together as hard as you can? I was in panic mode and sort of did both. I was wearing my muumuu - the big pink nightgown I bought for the first surgery. I get up and immediately know this is a bad situation. I hold my nightgown over my ass, walk as quickly as I can to the bathroom knowing I'm leaving a trail behind me ... and it's not bread crumbs!

Mortified, I make it to the toilet bowl. I am covered in shit. I look like a 3 month old who just had a diaper explosion. Except, I'm a 32 year old grown up with a Bachelor's Degree. I am sobbing. Just sobbing. This is the lowest of the low. I am alone in my bathroom and embarrassed. Then just as quickly as I started crying, I had a sort of an out of body experience. I was standing at the doorway of the bathroom, looking back at me on the bowl, covered in shit and crying ... and I just started laughing.

So now, I'm crying and laughing at the same time and making that snot that just drips out of your nose in streams. Like I care about the snot at this point! I reach for the toilet paper to wipe my nose and I notice poop on my forearm. How the hell did it get there? So now I'm laughing and crying even more. All alone. To myself. Hysterical.

I try to compose myself and think. I take my shit stained panties off and throw them in the tub. I should have just thrown them in the garbage but that was across the room. At least I could reach the tub from where I was sitting. Then I proceed to take my nightgown off. But I have to lift it over my head. It's covered in shit. So now, after lifting it over my head, I am covered in shit. Like there is poop on the back of my bald head. You can't make this stuff up.

I take two steps to the shower, put the water on super hot and just stand there. In like 30 seconds, I'm nearly clean and back to being a human being again. But let's be honest, I shit myself and cancer sucks.

What do you do after you shit yourself? You call a friend who you know would clean up your shit. Lucky for her, I called Katie. The first words I said were, "I need you." Then I followed that up with a good reason why, "I just shit myself." Needless to say, she took off a day and a half of work and drove 5 hours and was at my bedside later that day. In the meantime, Katie (in Connecticut) called Jackie (in New York) and Jackie deployed Angie (in Lancaster). That is how a village works. Minutes later, Marcia walks in and, as always, makes everything okay. Then Angie arrives and before I know it, you almost can't tell I pooped all over my beige rug. How many people do you know who would come over and clean up your shit? I had two in a manner of minutes. These people are angels on Earth. They have no idea what it means to me.

I wore Depends for the next three days. There's nothing sexier than being bald and wearing Depends.