Everybody Poops…crappy blog edition

Star Date 27022018

WARNING: If you have an aversion to talking crap, listening to crap, dealing with crap, or crappy conversations in general, look away and plug your olfactory systems cuz I guarantee I…er…this blog is full of it.

I’ve seen some sick crap in my time, but this takes the crap cake.

Thankfully someone invented the poop emoji. More thankfully, others have morphed this particular emoji and have come up with things like the Poopicorn:

Yes, I am aware there is something completely wrong with me…aside from the obvious brain injury. But (hehe…see what I did there?), for those still paying attention, read me out. I would not dare compare any amount of pain from the 14 major surgeries I’ve had, to that of the pain of childbirth. I would further not contend that pooping following childbirth, is a process that anyone of the male gender would want to attempt to compare field apples to field apples with. I’ll take one crappy step more and say I certainly would not suggest that anyone of the male gender would be preposterous enough to want to take the place of their precious bride when that bride needs to make big business following a child birth or a Cesarean section. Why, I would imagine just the thought of this makes most men conjour up all kinds of crappy thoughts…women folk too. So who am I? Am I the Bionic man? It has been suggested…due solely to the amount of dollars for all of my surgeries. Am I Frankenskiles? A better fit, given the amount of scarring from said surgeries. Am I, in fact, Ironman? At least in sense of humor. None of that matters. Here’s why. I would dare say there is not a human on this rock or any other that would want to trade places with me in the basement department of Empoorium, when it comes to post-surgery big business. Of the 14 major surgeries, four….nay, I say five…have all given cause for concern and perhaps some sort of a crappy prize for post-surgery-no-one-wants-to-poop, moments. The closest to a C-section for a man would be some sort of stomach surgery…I got that. Appendectomy when I was 12. Back in the days when the scar for such things was six inches long….a real six, not the six most men might say. Staples for closure and the wicked nurse who stated I had to make big business before I would be discharged from the hospital. I literally thought I would push more organs out of my new abdomen hole than crap out of my keister. Let’s just say it certainly felt like it. Not good enough of a comparison? My first brain surgery scar is ginormous. It takes up the entire parietal lobe of the right side of my head. Not many people know what it means to have bonding cement hold your skull together and then be told not to “bear down too much” and other useless yet whimsical things. Maybe these people have never pooped? Or….maybe they are loose like goose? Next time you’re heading in to a “sales meeting”….or “dropping the kids off at the pool”….or “replenishing the brown trout pond”….I can go on and on….alas I will cut this one off (teehee)…think about the process of bearing down and the pressure created in your gourd. Then imagine a fresh incision taking up the entirety of the right side of your globe. Then consider whether or not I actually incurred further brain injury by pooping. Could be. I just had my second brain surgery in 16 months. This one is lower and in the occipital region on the right side of my dome. I am touching on this now, but washing my hands before moving on. This surgery is considered potentially more delicate in regards to undue pressure, as the spot is softer and can create actual cerebral spinal fluid leakage. How many C-sections produce that? Final answer? Zero. Nada. Zilch. Nil. Ever backward. My first back surgery scar is approximately 11″ long. I would dare anyone to try and compare trying to poop and think they will hold any of their body parts within their meatsacks. 11”. I literally felt staples moving when I bore down as though I were passing my spine both through my back and my cheeks….simultaneously. My second back surgery was 13 months after the first and had a 10″ incision directly over the initial scar. More staples and more popping with pooping. My point is, I’m pretty sure there aren’t a whole lot of genders who will argue my crappy situation and thusly that my situation was indeed crappier than their own. Amen.

Now. Once upon a time, after authoring a blog about a certain pompous gent, farting across the kitchen and either too deaf to hear or too old to care…and yes, I absolutely laughed out loud… I was told I was insensitive and uncaring. I was further scolded that if I had done the very same offensive offense, I would not write such a thing about myself. A, clearly I am insensitive. And two, definitely uncaring. C, I absolutely would write just such an amazing occurrence. Which leaves us to this last bout of big business. Within hours post-surgery and post-arrival to the Neuro ICU (or NICU…not the itty bitty baby ICU), I found myself in somewhat of a dazed state. Attached to the rail, next to my newly hacked in to melon, was my urinal flask. Two things…nay…three. A. Next to the head is terrible because when you talk in to it, it creates an echo…disgusting. Two. It causes one to wrench their arms similar to that of a flamingo’s leg…not normal. C. No man on the planet can successfully utilize this device without the majority of its contents spilling betwixt his legs. Because of this you might as well go for the full fireboat on the Hudson experience and just create liquid art on the terribly starched sheets of the hospital bed. Now, one could argue that one is supposed to stand against the bed and employ the apparatus so one’s angle is more in tune with the odd angle of the Budwhizzer container . One could. If one did, then the one who is used to sitting on a throne for such things, could argue back…if I can lean against a bed to take advantage of this prehistoric contraption, how about yinz get me to the real deal like I asked?! From my slightly blurred vision, I am either dreaming or actually seeing a sink atop a typical cabinet base? Magically somehow, there appears to be a stainless steel throne sticking out of the cabinet. I force myself to get up on one elbow to truly see if that is the oasis I, or rather my suddenly cramping in-Tess-tīnes desire. I can do nothing from my current position. I use the call button to summon my angel of soon-to-be GI death and potential destruction. In walks a man about my age. Jack. A kindly gent. Well…so far…his world is about to change. I explain to Jack that I need to use the toilet. He hands me the urinal flask. I immediately advise Jack that this will not suffice for the type of business I need to conduct. I point at the corner of the room. Jack tells me he can get me a bedpan. I point again at the corner of the room. I do not know about anyone else, but I can tell you from my wiring that it is not a normal thing to either want to do big business in bed nor laying down. Strike two for Jack. He then offers a bedside commode. Strike th….wait…foul tip. I point more hurriedly at the corner.  My vision has cleared enough to note the stainless steel bowl is real….Homerun for me…game over for Jack. Jack reluctantly agrees to remove all the lines from their beeping and alarming type noise makers. He further, reluctantly escorts me to the toilet. Still not getting it, he stands me in front of it. I am trying to turn on my own to sit, and in my broken brain, I am using words…according to Jack, I am only pointing…a lot. I jerk enough to get him to finally realize I need to sit. He says, “Ooooooh.” I sit. I said sit. I look up and Jack is still there. I close my eyes, thinking Jack cannot see me anymore. I open them…nope…still there. I point ….in the hurried fashion again because that seemed to work well before…Jack gets it and moves to the opposite end of the room and peeks back.  I point again. He asks if I will be alright. I point. He leaves. Now…I am unclear as to whether or not I fell asleep, but I do recall being in the sitting position for a spell. I also felt the sudden urge to lean back at one point. A funny thing happened. I felt a rubber and metal round thingy hit me about mid back. A funnier thing happened….I felt my family jewels start to whirl around and get suctioned beneath me…it felt as though they were gonna be sucked to China and not just the Ohio River…where all poo from Pittsburgh goes….or is that the Monogepoola River? I forget. I did not fight…how could I? The very suctioning was also providing a typhoon type fresh breeze to my face…yes…I was still doubled over in abdominal strife. At some point Jack came back in. He inquired as to my readiness for the dismount and I told him I had not yet had chance to cleanse myself with paper product as normal folk sometimes do….and yes…I wash afterward….always. Jack let me know he would be taking care of this because I had way too many gizmos with which a bit of poop might make less sterile. I had no good argument against his logic; however, this did not keep me from arguing. Let’s just say a couple of things here. First and foremost, Jack is strong like ox…yet as gentle as a butterfly. B. I did not win the argument…see first and foremost. 3. I am a clean person…in all that implies. I have standards that exceed a lot of people’s standards…again…I wash after even entering a restroom. D. Go back to first and foremost. 5. Not since I was being prepped for potty training, has another person wiped my arse. F. I am not of an age where I should have to be wiped…as soon as Jack called me Mr. Skiles, I realized I very much felt the age at which I should need wiping by another. …I still did not care for the process any more than Jack cared for taking care of my crap and the devastation it left behind….get it? behind…About every hour after that, Jack would repeat the routine for just little business…trust me when I say there was no more give in the big business arena….that shi….p sailed. Jack would eyeball the flask and I would point. I finally found some words and was able to apologize. Jack…best I could tell through my drug-hazed peepers…would just deep sigh and give maximum effort (Deadpool). I was ever more thankful for Jack when the late-shift RN came in and relieved him….relieved…teehee…She was all of 18 or 26 or sub 30. Young…ain’t no way this gal would have been able to hoist my brown butt off of a steel commode by her lonesome. Why is this important? Let’s just say stage fright is a real thing. Add a couple of women folk or three and I would have sat there till I could not feel the rest of my legs…never a drop shall have passed betwixt. So…thank you to Jack and his crappy job.

Follow up:

My apologies to those whom attempted to read an earlier version of this as posted on WordPress or FB. WordPress crapped out and it got flushed. Though I do not recall all the jocularity in that particular version, this allows for posting my follow up appointment from today. In speaking with Dr. Yu, I inquired as to whether he knew nurse Jack. He said he did. I said that I did not feel as though Jack really liked me a great deal due to my crappy situation. He stated with surety that Jack liked me. As any HS boy might, I asked, “How do you know, did he tell you?” Dr. Yu’s response was, “Well, I think he liked you just fine.” We rambled on a bit and had a few laughs…for those wishing ill of me….well…1. Get in line…it forms behind ….B. Good luck with that…I am a Filipino cockroach. B. Good luck with all that. For those curious as to my abilities in the brain function arena….well…those have always been in question. For those wishing me well. Thank you, and I am healing quickly because that’s what being Ironstein is all about. I am free to roam about the country as long as others do my driving….Oh Belvedere….come here, boy. Thank you Bugs…get me out of this crap carnival.