I’ve been around longer than I’ll admit. I’ve been on several continents and done some traveling here in the USA.
I have been accused of forging my own traveler’s checks, (Venezuela), walked along a beach, with no cane, looking for my hotel, with nothing on but a nervous smile and a skimpy bathing suit (Mexico). I have feared for my life when an angry man told me that people who let their dogs relieve themselves on city sidewalks should be shot, my own dog was doing just that at the moment. (Philadelphia). However, to suffer the ultimate humiliation, I had to be in my own home, on the toilet.
I didn’t drink much water last Friday. I’m usually good for 3 quarts, if not a gallon. I was constipated, so I took a heavy-duty stool softener. Finally, just to give my body something to think about, I drank 2 beers and took a heavy-duty painkiller.
You shouldn’t drink alcohol with painkillers. I know that, and if I had thought of why you shouldn’t when I did it, I wouldn’t have. I just wanted to hang out with my buddies, in as little pain as possible.
However, not thinking is a habit with me when I’m in pain. I just wanted to get my misery over with. You would be amazed at how much attention an irritable bowel can command when it is singing the blues.
The 2 beers eventually prompted a call of nature. I hefted myself out of my artist’s garret, a/k/my recliner, and made my way to the appropriate room and its well-respected plumbing.
I tripped over a towel, lost my little bit of balance, and landed unceremoniously on the bathroom floor. I exhausted my 4-letter vocabulary and suddenly noticed something. I was hot, and the cool bathroom floor felt nice. I decided that no one would miss me if I laid there quietly for a couple of minutes. Apparently, my friends noted my absence and came to find me.
The first rescuer was Bh’s dachshund, Maya. She was just glad not to have to look up at a human for a change. She thanked me for being on her level by slathering my face with her warm wet tongue. “Hello, Maia Sue,” I mumbled. Lay down next to me, and for the sake of all that’s holy, quit licking me!”
She quit, but only because she was distracted when my friends filed into the bathroom after her.
I tried to explain my situation. Either they thought I was lying, or they just hadn’t had enough drama for the day. They clearly did not understand why someone who had just face planted herself on the bathroom floor might want to remain there for a few minutes before trying any more daring do, such as sitting up or walking.
Two of my friends hoisted me up. I made it clear that the stool softeners had kicked in, so friend #3 pulled down my jeans and underpants, and the 3 of them plopped me on the porcelain god.
I thought I heard one of my erstwhile companions say something about calling 911. I had other things on my mind, but I’m sure I tried to discourage them. Suddenly JS came to the door to inform me that 911, in the form of the Monticello fire department had arrived.
“Look, I’ll be fine. Please send them away.”
I heard JS talking to some men in the living room. Just then, the tsunami of cramps hit, so I didn’t catch their conversation. I guess that’s why JS lead them to me where I was not anxious to hold court, even if it could be called a throne in the vernacular.
“Ma’am, we have to make sure you’re all right before we leave.”
At some point, BH brought me a towel to cover my exposed lady parts. It was a little too late, but I was touched by his thoughtfulness.
“Ma’am, you’re shaking, and you’re white as a sheet. We need to take your pulse”.
I had nothing to gain by refusing. In fact, it was my hope that cooperation would give me the only thing I craved at the time, privacy.
“Ma’am, would you like to go to the hospital?”
“No, really I’m – another tsunami fine.”
“are you sure?”
“YESSSSSSS! OH G—–D! Yeah, I’ll be OMG! Fine!
My would-be saviors backed into the hall. Someone even did me the great courtesy of closing the damn door. Another tsunami, and a few more moans of pain, and my travail was over — at least physically.
“Ma’am?” A hesitant tap followed by a gentle male voice, “Can I please have your name?”
“Lucille,” I panted.
What is your last name?” he asked gently.
“Uttermohlen,” I supplied, wiping the sweat from my brow.
“Thank you,” he said, “your name sounds familiar.”
“Oh, yeah, I think she was an attorney.”
“That’s right,” a third strange male voice chimed in, “She represented my first wife in our divorce.”
Have you ever had one of those dreams where you’re conducting your business with Mother Nature, and suddenly you realize you’re in a crowded store, city street or restaurant, or some equally public venue, dressed only in what g-d gave you?” You wake up in a cold sweat, thinking you had just had a taste of your after-life reward. Well, just imagine how you would feel if you woke up and realized you weren’t just dreaming?