[those weak of constitution and not yet privy to my how shall i say it, uncensored, accounts of bowel movements, please move on.]
some bad words start with F, some with S, and others with C, or even worse, I.
the mere mention of the words “constipation” or “irritable bowel syndrome” can bring physical pain to those familiar to these cursed states of being.
the state of being constipated.
the state of being irritably bowled over by a syndrome.
yes, i am a little overweight but i am not too worried as long as i can still climb a flight of stairs and my waist doesn’t go beyond 32″. and as long as half of what i eat everyday consists of something that sprouted from soil or grew beneath the ground, i’m happy.
but sometimes, just sometimes, i eat cheese. i don’t just eat cheese. i replace half my internal organs with cheese.
pizza, parmigiana, lasagna, anything with melted cheese and i’m pretty much screwed over. but while i’m screwing myself over, my eyes are rolling to the back of my head in pleasure because honey, cheese is the new chocolate.
usually, all i’ll get is a rumble and a tumble in my tummy. you’d think Lilliputian men were in my guts working away but it’s just bacteria panicking. my bacteria are an extension of me, a worrywort.
but sometimes, just sometimes, for some unknown reason understood by only the stars in the sky, i get bowel issues after an all-you-can-eat cheese buffet. especially if we’ve been eating rubbish for days before that, which we’d been doing for a week plus before this episode.
and after a particularly orgasmic consumption of large amounts of home-made lasagna (cos when you bake it yerself, there’s no stopping pouring 2 entire packets of cheese into the Pyrex dish) some days ago, my happy bowels were no longer a bed of roses to gloat about. what more, 2 days later, i had more home-made lasagna at a friend’s, with just as much cheese. like i hadn’t had enough leftover cheese from my own lasagna.
i’m happy to announce that usually, i make a nice pile of crap daily, usually within 15 minutes of waking up. when my eyes open up, apparently my bowels do too.
this time, i had the urge, but it felt like a rock was standing guard at the exit point.
being one of them gloating good bowel movers, i am an advocate of not straining. so i sit there, on my familiar throne, and i use whatever tummy power i’ve acquired from hundreds of sit-ups in primary school instead.
and it hurts, like a bitch.
then it hurts again the next day.
and the next.
and the next.
and the next.
i even have an assigned bite towel (note: if you need a towel to bite into when in pain, Ikea sells fantastic handkerchief sized towels for babies, even comes with a loop at the corner so you can hang it up after you’re done crying).
and so i visited Dr Yasmin and her rolling Rs.
“arrr you … single?” married.
“do you have any allerrrgees?” nope, just to cats. cat-induced asthma.
“any surrrgerrrees?” yes, i lost count after four, here, take a look.
i told her i’ve been constipated for a week and soft spoken Dr Yasmin exclaimed, “oh! too much! too much!” and i felt like lunging myself head first into the bedpan and walking around in shame.
“have you lost a lot of weight rrrecently?” nope. (i wish!)
“do you exerrrcise (looks at my stomach and my “Meat is Murder.Tasty, Tasty Murder t-shirt“)?” er, not recently.
“so it’s a sedentarrry lifestyle, yes?” er, yes (at this point, i felt so ashamed and realised i should have simply stayed on the throne biting into my Ikea towel because a sedentarrry lifestyle is so passé).
“have you lost any appetite?” er, no? (no, no, no, no, Dr Yasmin, no, i haven’t lost any appetite since i first suckled on momma’s bounteous titties)
“do you … use morphine?” (i almost threw my head back to let a hearty laugh escape but realised this might look like overcompensating for a possible lie, and she might start shifting her stare from my do-not-exercise-tummy to my arms to look for needle bruises, so i simply kept a straight face and said… ) er, no (cos all she’d find anyway was lots of shimmer body lotion instead).
i then realised where this was going and said, “wait a minute, i should clarify that i have been passing motion everyday. it just hurts, that’s all. and only the first inch is hard, the rest is soft. and today, i’m afraid of going to the loo cos that first part hurts real bad.”
Dr Yasmin looked up at me from her notes and brought her blue ballpoint pen to CONSTIPATION which she’d scribbled before and struck across it several times like all she was waiting to do the entire day was lacerate medical notepads.
apparently, i am not constipated.
i felt like she was about to form a fist around the pen and draw on the paper like a 3 year old would draw circles, “PSYCHO HYPOCHONDRIAC WITH PSYCHOSOMATIC SYMPTOMS OF BOWEL LUNACY.”
but all pretty Dr Yasmin with her smooth alabaster skin said was, “i think you have some harrrd stools.”
oh, they’re harrrd, alright.
she explained that she could give me painkillers and suppositories, then asked if i wanted her to check my butt.
perhaps what i should have done before baking that lasagna was go for a Brazilian wax and exfoliate my dead butt cells to reveal the smoother! newer! fresher! skin beneath.
so i laid foetal on my side and exposed a part of my body that only various toiletbowls around the world have gotten acquainted with.
“okay, it will feel cold because i have some jelly on my fingerrr.”
after i got positively sodomised by her thankfully slender female finger, she asked me to squeeze her finger.
“oh my gawd”, i thought to myself, “this ain’t happening to me, i am squeezing someone’s finger up my anus.”
the way she moved her finger inside me (always thought i’d say this under different circumstances) and looked around made me feel like she was searching frantically for her handphone in my anus like i would in my pouchless handbags.
and just like that, the moment of shame was over and i had to sit back down at her desk.
“don’t worrry. therrre’s nothing wrrrong. you just have some harrrd stool and a fissurrre.”
when she said fissure, i saw Moses splitting the Red Sea.
the fissure, the wound, is caused by hard stool that’s caused by lack of water.
me, the girl who sometimes downs 2L a water a day. gets hard stool. and cystitis. what next, will i be dehydrated?
i understand this isn’t an exact science so next time i have a large portion of cheese, i’m gonna be drinking a whole loada sky juice.
i got sent home with, lo and behold, GLYCERIN SUPPOSITORIES.
how can i not have ever, ever, ever heard of these little healing rockets? when we got home, Ravi followed me around the house (which is very tiny) like a dog, down to the last 30cm around me. even as i unwrapped the suppository and walked towards the bed to shoot (more like, stuff) the little glycerin torpedo up my butt, he came along. quiet, but surely, he followed me around, like a lovesick puppy.
before i even got down to business, he squatted by the corner of the bed to get a vantage point of everything that was to follow i.e. dropping my pants, lying foetal, pointing the torpedo up the right hole and pushing it through.
“what do you think you’re doing, Ravi?”
i wanna watch.
“why do you wanna watch?”
cos this is better than Discovery Channel.
next time he goes to the toilet to pee, i’m gonna stand at the doorway watching him. let’s see if he can wee past go then.
i’m not 100% better yet, but i’m gonna get there. gonna make me some wholemeal pancakes now. cos you just cannot get complacent or you’ll get a finger up yours.