I Lost The Race

Last night was a shitty night, both figuratively and literally. Not the whole night, just that part which comes at the end, just before you go to bed, that part of the night where you are really tired and ready to call it a day.

For me the pre-bed ritual includes turning off the lights, taking my medications, making sure my jug is clean and empty, and, if necessary, going to the bathroom. Once all of this is done, I can transfer to my bed, undress, and make some semblance of getting into bed. I had completed all of my assigned tasks and was about to get into bed when my lower bowel announced that it had further work for me, RIGHT NOW!

I made my way into the bathroom as quickly as I could, positioned, adjusted, and locked my wheelchair as best I could, then made the transfer to the toilet. It was at that moment, when my body felt itself on the circular relief zone, that my lower bowel decided it was time. I found myself desperately yarding off my pants and underwear, all the while engaged in a combination of futile prayer and cursing at my lower end while fighting to pull, not withstanding the damage being done.

My jeans and underwear finally came off, just at about the same time as my body was finished with what it needed to do. I looked at them. I cannot describe what I beheld. It was not pretty; it was truly a shitty mess. Then I realized my derriere, still perched on the porcelain power seat, was a victim of the dragging slurry, well spread in the process. The dragging of my jeans, fully loaded as they were, across that mass of flaciditiy, could only have one result. It did.

Cleanup was sorely needed. I started with myself, using the built-in washing system in my toilet. Alas, it was insufficient for the task at hand. A shower was needed. So I readied a towel onto my wheelchair; I have sympathy for what that poor towel was called upon to face. I transferred, a sliding motion across the seat, somewhat onto the towel, finally in place. At this point I looked at the toilet itself; it would need plenty of cleaning. Still my shower waited for me.

Thus came the toilet. I wanted to get all the shitty stuff done before I had my shower. Better to be clean after cleaning. I cleaned the top of the lid, the bottom of the lid, the top of the seat, the bottom of the seat, the inside of the bowel, the outside of the bowl, and the pedastal itself. I even cleaned up the floor; yes, there too.

Next came my jeans and underwear. If you've ever cleaned a diaper, a really messy, large, well filled diaper, you have sense of this task. It took a while. In the end, if you will forgive the pun, I soaked them for the night, leaving them in the sink, hoping that I had done all that was needed. Surely there will be laundry today.

Then came my shower. This is the single riskiest thing I do. My inability to transfer safely, my inability to sit up without wobbling, my inability to pick things up from the floor, all of these and more make it essential that I have someone with me when I shower. I was alone. I did the transfer in. With an abundance of care and caution, I took off my compression socks and my shirt. Then I washed, as much as I could and as far as I could, without falling sideways. I grabbed the towel I had set in preparation, dried myself, and finally made transfer back. I survived.

Bed was next, and I happily went there. I transferred from the wheelchair and noticed I was shaking quite a bit. By the time I was in bed, I was shaking so badly I couldn't hold my cell phone. It was stress; the shaking was a response to the tremendous effort I had put out, just because my bowels beat me in a race to the toilet. I had enough trouble sleeping that at 2:00 AM I took a Zopiclone. I hate Zopiclone.

I finally slept. Unfortunately I awoke this morning sore in every part of my body, and still shaking. It takes me longer to recover, apparently longer than 10 hours of drug induced sleep. Last night I was shitty, this morning I just feel shitty.