September 29, 2018

i thought there would be more secret service agents

(Note:  This post contains some serious shit.  And by serious shit, I mean a great deal of fecal material with no sense of humor whatsoever.  There are personal details here that writers are never meant to share, from the other side of the bathroom door.  I will gross you out like nobody's business.  Feel free to skip today's post.  Especially if you're eating.)

I don't usually dream about actual memories.  My dreams are normally patched and hammered together from lots of different bits, but last night I dreamed about the summer eight or nine years ago when I had a giardia infection.

As far as causes of diarrhea go, giardia is more fun than most because in addition to five straight weeks of intestinal cramping and agony resistant to Imodium and all anticholinergics, it gives the gift of poo with an ungodly stench so vile that your nostrils pinch together of their own accord and you have difficulty breathing because you remember that science class in seventh grade when your teacher told you that your sense of smell works because tiny little bits of whatever you're smelling are actually floating through the air.

And that fun science fact is the reason I was retching on the morning I had to harvest a stool sample for my doctor.  They had given me the plastic container and bag and label and plastic Dairy Queen spoon-looking thing, but I had to be the one to figure out how to actually collect the sample.  It was a special kind of humiliation that a person can experience in complete privacy.  There was also a super-interesting moment when I was distracted from the horrid odor while using the spoon to scoop up part of my giardia-poo and a tiny string of mucus that was in it formed and then disappeared and it looked like a pinworm disappearing into a kitten's rectum and I threw up and spent the rest of the day convinced that I had worms and that was what was wrong with me and the doctors had totally missed it.

I lay for a while on my bed, going into the light of the lamp because that was the only way to leave my body.  P.J. patiently talked me down and had me go through the details and applied logic and medical expertise until I understood it was just mucus I saw and not a worm.  (Can I take this moment to shout out what an amazing wife I have?)  I didn't mind the gag-inducing smell in the bathroom nearly as much after that.

They tried all kinds of treatment and I was tested for Celiac and I even had a colonoscopy, but in the end the giardia had to run its course and then I got better.

At two o'clock this morning, I woke from the dream and immediately knew a) why I had had it, b) why I had woken up, and c) that days that begin at two in the morning with smells like that are not going to be good days.  It was the same smell.  The giardia smell.  It permeated the bedroom.  Molly was up and walking around, and after turning on the lamp and taking in the scene, I understood the suffocating, cough-inducing farts she was giving off last night.

There was a puddle of diarrhea on one rug.

And tiny diarrhea paw prints across the wood floor to the blanket she'd been sleeping on, which also had little puddles of diarrhea.

It was like a diarrhea crime scene.  I looked at this cute little recently spayed puppy with her Cone of Shame, in her sedative stupor, and thought that surely she could not have created it.  The only explanation that fit was that Donald Trump had come into my bedroom half an hour earlier and started talking and shaking his head vigorously at the same time.  There was that much shit on the floor.  I didn't hear him because I wear ear plugs.  He's known for wee-hours shit-spewing and I was pretty sure I'd forgotten to lock the back door.  It totally made sense, to a person with three hours of sleep and Lunesta in her system.

But then I thought about that and how there isn't much room in the bedroom and all of the sunglasses-at-night-wearing Secret Service agents wouldn't have been able to fit.  So Molly's post-anesthesia, antibiotic-besieged intestinal tract had produced all of this.  I congratulated myself on having shut the bedroom door before turning in, and gave myself major points for resisting the temptation to let her sleep up on the bed.  I hauled the rug and blanket down to the washing machine.  I wiped and sprayed and cleaned the footprints away.  I took a wet wipe and cleaned Molly's backside.  I sprayed air freshener and lit apple-scented candles.  Then I set her crate back up and stuffed it with a waterproof bed and put her in it, because fuck that shit.

(Side note:  P.J. took Rose up to The Lodge this weekend so we wouldn't have to crate Molly.  So that's funny, too.)

We slept until dawn, in spite of the brightly candle-lit room.  I woke to her whining, sat straight up, and in one smooth motion had her on a leash in the back yard with my pajamas still crooked, just in case.  She walked around for a while, still drugged, sometimes stopping to stare at grass, but nothing productive happened.  We went back inside.

I made a cup of coffee while she promptly went around a corner and deposited diarrhea on another rug and a sheet.

My whole life today will revolve around Molly and diarrhea.  I've given her Imodium (because the Internet said I could) and later I'll cook her some chicken and rice mixed with cottage cheese (because the Internet said I should).  I'm allowing her to lie against my left leg and rest as I type, even though the farts are still escaping and they're kind of traumatizing at this point.  Laundry is constantly running downstairs.

I suppose I have to thank her for aiming solely at things that can be put in a washing machine.  "Thank you for having diarrhea in only specific locations."  I just don't think it would make a good greeting card.  "Thank you for not letting Donald Trump and a bunch of Secret Service agents into the bedroom last night."  Hell, that card might be at the drug store right now.


  1. Poor Molly! And poor you for having to do clean up doody. Ha! I'm assuming that what she has isn't contagious but is just a result of the antibiotics? Hopefully, this will clear up before you run out of candles. Mona

    1. Oh my word, you say funny things! Honey, we do not run out of candles in this house. We've been known to make our own in a pinch. Ikea's do the best job of replacing the awful with the pleasant, I've found. Only one episode since, at 5:30 this morning, if you don't count my finding older bits of it lying around last evening. Luckily, she likes the chicken and rice and cottage cheese mixture, spiked with an Imodium.

    2. You're a candle freak, too?!!!! Just another reason I adore you! *lights a candle, waits a few and then spills candle wax as she says "cheers"*

  2. On a plus side it wasn't Donald Trump in your bedroom, notwithstanding the lack of Secret Service men, as I doubt very much he'd allow the Secret Service into a female's bedroom at the same time as he's creeping in. On a very down side, it wasn't Donald Trump in your bedroom as they'd now be starting to do the rigmarole for a state funeral and trying to think of a cause of death and swearing you to secrecy, while whooping it up - quietly, where no one can see them.

    Poor Molly and double poor you, this too shall pass (unfortunate pun intended).

    Gentle hugs to you both.

    1. That is what I love about you ... well, one of the things ... your keen insight into the future, cause and effect, all that ... comes with being a scary Druid witch? ;) At least I only had to clean up poo (oh, and some vomit later) and not a REAL crime scene!

    2. I think the lack of sleep is getting to you, you wouldn't have to clean anything. Secret Service would have that crime scene disappeared so fast that the Rose and Molly wouldn't be able to recognise that they were home, there'd be new carpet, floor boards, wall paper, paint etc. They couldn't risk some Trumpist DNA being in a female's bedroom, no proof - no crime scene ;) There'd be no dress in a wardrobe for a future 'tell all'.

      Glad to hear it's easing out, just in time for PJ and Rose to arrive home.

      Hugs a ghrá