Mic Dundee at Your Service

I've said it once, and I'll say it again: last night was easily one of the worst nights of my life.

If you don't like bathroom stories, no need to keep reading. Our family is famous for them, and I'm proud to be able to add another one to the chart-topper list of bathroom horror tales.

Let me cut to the chase... After taking Vicodin every 6 hours for 4 days straight, and obviously not drinking enough liquids, I found myself beyond the normal realms of earthly constipation. In other words, other-worldly constipation. Yes, that has a nice ring to it.

After attempting to pass on my own what I later learned was a "softball-size" turd, I wound up in the Emergency Room in severe pain.

We live in Vermont, and the closest hospital is 25 minutes away. I thought about calling 9-1-1 until I remembered my neighbor telling me he's an EMT and would be the first one to arrive at "the scene" should there ever be an "emergency." I decided that since "the scene" would be my bathroom with me on the toilet and the "emergency," my lack of pooping, it'd be best to not involve him in this delicate matter.

Instead I begged Mark to rush me to the ER at 8 o'clock at night. I waited in "triage" for 2 hours with an angel of a nurse named Rebecca. I couldn't sit, and to add to the torture, I could hear the doctor on the other side of the curtain, at the bed next to mine, (very) slowly assessing another patient.

Meanwhile I prayed (out loud) to the Lord, my savior, to help me poop, even if on the floor. I told Jesus I wouldn't mind and begged him to exorcise the poop demons from my body.

Finally the doctor came to see me. Though it was a 2-person room, and I was the only patient now in there, he closed the door. And I knew something awful was about to happen. Much to my surprise, he looked just like Crocodile Dundee... So I knew he was the man for the job.

I explained my situation. He said (in an Australian accent, I imagined), "I'll have to do a rectal exam and manually break up the poop." Oh God. I had heard about this procedure but long since convinced myself it was only an urban legend.

It was over quickly but not without some crying and one, last, humiliating "I can NOT do this!!"

Mic Dundee apologized and warned me it may take one more round of "crock wrestling" to "release the beast."

Then they ushered me off to the enema room where Rebecca, my nurse angel, filled me with mineral oil for a spa-like experience I will never forget.

Ten minutes later, I ran to the bathroom, threw aside my barf bag, dropped my glasses on the floor, and suffered through five rounds of poop-passing convulsions.

In a flash, Mic had my discharge orders ready. He came in the room, while I was breast feeding E. (Super-Duper Pooper Mom!), and he said "I'm sorry. I'll give you a minute." (tire-screeching halt sound) Seriously? You're bashful about a boob? You just had your hand in my butt, massaging my poop.

He reminded me to drink lots of water - and no more Vicodin. Extra-Strength Tylenol will do.

Note from the forever optimist: My dignity is gone, which is unfortunate, but I am now officially immune to all levels of shame and humiliation.