It's All About the Poop

I never imagined it would come to this, but my mother and I are sharing the cancer experience together. We've sat side by side in our recliners getting our chemo, carpooled to the clinic, and compared notes on so many cancer related topics. But it's strange that just like at the beginning of my life, when I was an asthmatic infant, and she, a 23 year old innocent, our interests once again revolve around eating, napping and pooping.

The eating--well, we give one another suggestions of what tastes best (or least repulsive), and what stays down. As for napping--we give one another permission to nap as needed--without guilt (So there!)

But the pooping is the one thing that still is the wild card.

After driving us back from chemotherapy at our clinic which is 65 miles away, and we pulled into my driveway, I felt I could finally say what had been on my mind for over half the trip: "I made it home without pooping my pants!" To which my mother replied, "So did I!" It was reassuring to find out that she had packed a roll of toilet paper and an extra pair of panties that she would have been willing to share, had the desperate need become apparent.

The Freudian oral-anal stage is back. I'm once again delighted with a sense of accomplishment by a BM, often regretfully flushing my day's greatest accomplishment, and feeling the need to make a phone call to someone to celebrate. I emerge with a song of joy and dance of victory!

Fortunately, I have a family supportive enough (and odd enough) to celebrate with me. A family to whom I can announce with joy, "I pooped!" and they willingly kill the fatted calf in celebration.

But only I know what has gone on behind the closed bathroom doors in achievement of these victories--the pain, the strain, the unspeakable humiliations.

Stool softeners and milk of magnesia are key components of my survival kit these days, and occasionally hemorrhoidal cream.

As for today, it's going to be a great day--I've pooped!