WARNING….The kids and I (and even Shawn) had a bit too much fun coming up with slang terms for some of the topics/content of this post. Would say sorry, but it was just too much fun, and after hearing what happened, you will understand WHY I needed to laugh!
I am back! I can apologize profusely…OR I can choose to just get on with it, start rolling on from here and hope for better in the future, and by God, given that it IS my blog, I choose door number two, get on with it! You may recall that one of my last posts was about how I was “FULL OF SHIT.” Although it took me an alarming amount of time to discover, I did finally ascertain that I AM in fact experiencing a side-effect to taking Tecfidera (DMD); it is causing me to be constipated (bound-up, can’t get the train out of the tunnel, log jam, rectal congestion.) Truthfully, this is NOT an affliction that I have ever had before; not even before, during or after giving birth to three babies. I have ALWAYS been regular (been able to “do ones daily duty” (doddy), build a log cabin, christen the comfort station, drop a load, take a dump…CRAP this could go on forever!) The point is, that one of the ONLY negatives that I have experienced with beginning to take Tecfidera (DMD) is that it seems to have stopped this bodily function; not just hinder or slow it down slightly, but altogether STOP.
Not being one to take notice of such changes, by the time I realized it, I was extremely concerned. After all, as my 15 year old son informed me, fecal compaction is no joking matter (although PRETTY sure it IS something that he and his friends would and do giggle about.) Given the amount of time and the quantity of food that I had consumed during that period, I realized that there had to be a whole lotta shit in me. The reasonable thing would be to “eliminate” the problem, but I also knew that I would have to do so in such a way as to NOT find myself 5 miles from the nearest bathroom, or in the office, or in a public restroom with strangers 3 feet away on either side, when I finally had the urge to go (have a blow out, become a human espresso machine, experience Montezuma’s Revenge, compete in a shitathlon, or have the volcanic whoopies.) Rather than pop one of the laxatives that a friend handed off to me, I began with a more natural approach; increased fiber, more water and upping my exercise. When this didn’t seem to have ANY effect, I went to phase two of my mission and began a regiment of a heaping spoonful of Metamucil in my juice in the mornings. After a full week of that (and no more than a “smidgen” of poop to be seen) I bumped up to Miralax. I took this for another week, with NO noticeable improvements. I did stop then for a bit. Knowing that Shawn and I were heading off for MY birthday “surprise”; going to see the Zac Brown Band at the Gorge and that we would be “camping” (parking in an enormous field with thousands of other cars spaced just feet away from one another, and using port-a-potties located down LONG rows of cars) it seemed a WISE decision to NOT have this particular predicament resolved during that 72 hour period of my life. The stars must have been in alinement, SOMEONE must have been watching over me, and LUCK must have been on my side…..because GUESS WHAT!!@@! NOTHING HAPPENED.
It was one of the most amazing weekends I have EVER had!!!
We returned home and I was STILL FULL OF SHIT! Although I was really, really, really beginning to worry about it; plus my clothes were beginning to get super tight, I still hesitated to pop the laxative. This MIGHT be because of the verbal warning issued by my friend as she handed it over to me. I don’t remember it word for word, but something to the effect of “be careful, you might shit your pants.” WELL, been there and done that, THANK-YOU! Although I was FULLY aware that I may well just have to “grin and bare it” and pop that pill, I wanted to try a bit longer on the less “powerful” stuff.
THANK GOD I DID, BECAUSE I CAN’T EVEN IMAGINE WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF IT WAS THE LAXATIVE THAT KICKED IN!!!
ANOTHER WARNING….the following is NOT for the squeamish, those with “weak stomachs,” those that don’t admit to ANY bodily functions, or sounds or smells, those that deny EVER farting, let alone pooping AND those that can’t even imagine ever admitting that sometimes….SHIT HAPPENS.
If you are still with me, do NOT say I didn’t warn you!!!
We had returned on Sunday night, and I faithfully downed my glass of liquid containing the heaping bottle cap full of the tiny little pellets that make up Miralax. I did the same thing the next day, and the next day, and the next….and then…IT happened. I was spending the night at Shawn’s house (OF COURSE!) but even that isn’t THAT bad! What happened WAS. We had gone to bed fairly early, as we both get up super early to begin our work days and we were both exhausted. I suppose I should be thankful that I did actually wake up (kind of), and get up (kind of.) I did both, but NEITHER in time. Somewhere in the depths of my sleep, my body, my mind, SOMETHING, somewhere KNEW that the time had FINALLY come. At long last, after days and weeks (and possibly even months) the toxic crap that had been building up in my body, was ready to vacate the premises!
I DID get up, BUT, not in time. I awoke, to the utterly horrific realization that I was ALREADY relieving myself, IN THE FUCKING BED! I SHIT YOU NOT! Even once I was fully awake, and struggling to get out of the bed (the legs take more than just “a moment” to function) I was not able to STOP the purging of all the shit and crap that had been festering in my body! I was awake, and shitting in my boyfriend’s bed, with him laying peacefully asleep beside me (oh IF only he knew….oh but wait, he would in a minute!) Then I was shitting as I ungracefully SLID off the side of the bed (all the time, still defecating) to land PLOP on the carpet (which you should know it is NOT a dark color, but rather light tan…alright…cream!) I was sitting on his floor, in my own shit, unable to get up and sobbing (which, if you are wanting to NOT wake someone up, is NOT the thing to do!)
As I continued to sob and I attempted to crawl to the bathroom, grinding the feces further INTO the carpet and dragging my body THROUGH it, he woke up. Through the dark I heard “Meg, what is it?” “What’s wrong?” And then I heard the most terrifying sound I could have imagined at that moment in my life, the sound of the bedsheets being pushed aside as he climbed out of bed. I have never screamed with such sheer terror and conviction “No, stop! Don’t get out of bed!” There was just NO way that I could have him see what I had done, see not only ME but the bed and the carpet and now the bathroom, COVERED in shit. The cold reality was, I didn’t have any control of that particular bodily function at that moment (damn Miralax) and as I have said….I WAS FULL OF SHIT, but I COULD try and have control over him and what he did and saw.
When you love someone, it is nearly if not completely impossible to just sit idly by as that person is suffering, crying, sobbing and blabbering. You want to help, to make it better, to come to their aid; and that is all that Shawn wanted to do for me. But there was just NO way that I could face him during that moment. I KNEW that I was going to have to turn the lights on; to face what I already knew was going to be the the shit filled battleground of a crap marksman…literally. As I raised myself onto the toilet, still smearing the crap everywhere, I tried to get the words out, to explain to him what was wrong, what had happened and why he couldn’t help. HOW do you do that? I say that I laugh at what this disease does, and I swear to you, I DO, but I did NOT see anything remotely funny at that moment in time. I saw misery and embarrassment; I was ashamed of “what I had done” and could not imagine anyone being kind enough and big enough to NOT be disgusted, to NOT judge me, to not be as horrified as I was. The words haltingly came out, and I explained that I was “no longer plugged up” and tried to express to him just how BAD it was, what I had “done” and the mess that I had made. He didn’t judge but more importantly (for me at least) although he expressed concern and empathy, there was never a moment that I felt that there was pity. Because when it comes down to it, that is my biggest fear; I don’t EVER want to be pitied. This man that I love, who was sitting inches away from MY SHIT, somehow managed to make me believe that it WAS o.k. and that it WASN’T my fault and that I hadn’t done anything to be ashamed about.
The rational part of me KNEW that, even in that moment, BUT it is still all consuming to be THAT embarrassed, to feel ashamed of yourself, and to have done something that you simply can NOT hide, can not deny. The truth is that each and every one of us have had SOME moment in our lives, when something happens with our bodies that mortifies us, creates deep and endless amounts of shame. For some, it can be something as simple as knowing that someone in the next bathroom stall heard you taking a poop, or maybe farting in public. Others might be devastated to know that their spouse saw them putting a tampon in, or skid marks on their skivvies. But these are ALL things that HAPPEN, they really DO. To everyone. It is part of being HUMAN. I realize that my story, my situation, is on the HIGH end of the spectrum for being “ubber-embarrassing.” I wasn’t sure how I was going to face Shawn in the morning (or ever again) as I climbed in next to him on the fresh, clean sheets I had put on the bed; having washed off in the shower after spending 45 minutes on my hands and knees scrubbing the carpet (with his relentless nagging to let him help in the background.) But eventually and not surprisingly, morning did come, and with it daylight, which revealed my less than stellar clean up job, but it also revealed that he had meant it when he said it was alright and that he really didn’t think I was disgusting, or love me any less because of what had happened to me. His reaction (or almost lack of) helped me see it as just that, something that “had happened to me” rather than “something that I had done.”
Knowing me, and how I choose to deal with this disease and everything that has and will happen as a result of being “lucky” enough to have MS, he made some lame joke about it as he poured my cup of coffee. He was met with little more than a growl. “Too soon?” And it was. But just like every other embarrassing thing that has happened (and will happen in the future,) I just needed a little bit of time; to lick my wounds and remind myself; if it is happening to me, it has happened to someone else. Simple fact IS… I am just not THAT special. He is that person that will give me the space and allow ME to decide when I am ready, but when I am ready, he will shovel it on thick, knowing I will never take offense and that what I need is that laughter, it is what makes it o.k.. He is also the one that will gently remind me that it would have been helpful to have read about someone else going through something similar (or even just as embarrassing,) when I hesitate, even for just a moment, at the thought about writing about it. He is right; there is strength in numbers. Even if those numbers ARE full of shit!
Shawn came home from work, and it was no longer too soon. He walked in and asked “how was your day? Did the shit hit the fan?” Just hours before I think I would have taken his head off for asking that. It was all still too raw, to easy to remember just how embarrassed and ashamed I had felt the night before, but just hours later (not even days I’m afraid to admit)… I laughed until I peed my pants….DAMN IT!!!!
PLEASE TAKE A MINUTE TO WATCH WHAT CAME TO ME WHILE WRITING THIS POST…AND NOT FROM SOMEONE THAT KNOWS THE STORY…YET! TALK ABOUT KARMA, thinking I should order some!