Friday, June 20, 2008
The above photo was taken at a monument unveiling in the spa paradise of Zheleznovodskgolden, Russia. The sculpture depicts a glistening enema bulb, held aloft by three adorable, and I assume poop-free, angels. A jurlfriend e-mailed this to me and at first glance I thought someone had built a monument to honor my mother who has spent the majority of her life snuggled up to an enema hose.
My earliest memories of my mom involve nudity (hers), a red rubbery enema bag hanging from a bent wire hanger looped over the shower rod, a long white tube with one end linked to the red rubber enema bag and the other end disappearing behind my mother's..err..end, and the smell of warm Vaseline (vomit). This was where my mother spent her down time and took a moment to go through the mail or perhaps catch up on her Reader's Digest reading. Always butt naked. Is it any wonder I am the way I am?
Thanks to my mom and her jacked up colon, I have spent my life avoiding the enema and, frankly, any kind of butt-hole exploration. When I had my first baby I caved into the pressure to go for the enema only because I hadn't pooped in three days and had a very real concern I might dump a ton of raw sewage right on the floor of the birthing room. The enema part was vaguely humiliating, but the going to the bathroom part was easy. Or so I thought. After the nurse filled me up with enema unleaded, I ran to the bathroom and released. No prob.
I felt so light and cleaned out afterwards I almost floated back to the bed. With the dirty business done, the nurses went ahead and put the cath in and hooked up all the other tubing and what not that goes with baby delivery. Twenty minutes after I was immobilized my bowels seized up and started to cry foul! I looked at poor Husband and yelled, "Get the Nurse!!"
The nurse came strolling in and I explained my troubles, quickly. She gave me a bed pan. Seriously, a bed pan. I was so desperate I didn't really think through what I was about to do, but just went with it. That day I had more poop production than any other human being on the planet Earth, before or since. I felt like I was rising up on the crest of a tsunami. It was unreal.
Husband could tell something bad was happening so he tried to look away, but couldn't quite tear his gaze from the horror unfolding before him. When it was all over I had to wipe for about half an hour. Husband and I pretend this moment never happened so that we can continue to look each other in the eye.
Anyway, I fear the enema and fear these Russian spas that pride themselves on violating other human beings with the "ass probe of pain."
Go here for the msnbc enema article: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/25265056/?GT1=43001
Posted by Misti D. Mosteller at 5:14 AM