Poop Police: And Other Fine Stories From My Stay At The Hospital

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June 15, 2015 by Manny Wordsmith

Nurses are loud.

“Sir! Have you pooped yet, today?”

I awoke in a sweat, wondering how the Poop Pied Piper followed me into the hospital.

“Sir? SIR?? Did you POOP?”

I felt disturbed, off-kilted and rattled to the core. “Who is this loud woman,” I thought, “and what poop troop brigade is she aligned with?” From her tone and the way she asked her question, I concluded that she was only giving two choices: either have that poop out and all pathways cleared of obstruction, or be ready to have the poop forced out by any means necessary. No questions asked. No prisoners taken.

I felt like I was witnessing the same treatment constipated soldiers probably faced on the Death Star.

BUT who am I to say that 2:46am on a Friday morning is too soon to ask a grown man if he has passed his bowels. Anytime is a good time for poop checks, right?

The sweaty nurse waddled deeper into the room when she didn’t hear a  response from my roommate.

(Yes, my roommate. The poop police was not after me this morning.)

She came in sniffing and snarling like a velociraptor, searching for any sign that poop had been released. I was scared, so I tightened my ass cheeks and avoided eye contact in case she came after me next.

“Benjamin, BENJAMIN! Have you pooped,” She asked.

Benjamin, a large, 70-year-old man, was giving no fucks. This only made the nurse clinch her fists in frustration and impatiently ask her question once more.

“Poop, poop! Did you poop Benjamin, did you use the bathroom?”

When he didn’t answer, Ben was savagely shook awake to be active in his intestinal interrogation.

“Pooped?”

“Oh, um…haha, oh not yet, not yet at all,” He replied.

His uncomfortable laugh made me feel uncomfortable. There’s nothing funny about a grown woman asking hard questions about poop.

“Well Benjamin,” She said, “I’m not sure if you’ve seen your x-rays, but your stomach is filled with poop and we need to get it out of your system, like now. I’m giving you a strong laxative. It will help you with your pooping. Ok? Any questions? Have you passed gas? Yes? Ok, I will be back after you’ve pooped.”

The nurse just shot it all at him. She laid down the plan, without needing any response from Ben. She was the offensive coordinator, the coach and the quarterback. And this next play felt personal, like she saw the x-rays and was like, “No, NO! Not again poop. You are not taking another one of my patients, you are not fucking doing this to me again!”

But Ben did have a bit of a response.

“Well, haha, I can’t get up myself. So I’ll need some help getting to the potty haha.”

“Just call when your about ready and we’ll help you to the potty.”

WTF, I thought.

She was leaving me with a time bomb. A man given a super laxative who may or may not have enough time to get to the “potty”.

But I had no one to blame. I had put myself there. Pancreatitis they call it, a condition brought upon by bad drinking/eating habits and lots of stress. If I had taken better care of myself in the months earlier, I would’ve been well out of range of the malevolent ass grenade brewing in Ben’s guts.

I was in so much pain I couldn’t really move, so I was forced to watch the minutes pass and I grew more and more nervous. “Would he have enough time to get to the potty,” I thought. I could hear his stomach bubbling as the laxative took effect. All together about 25 minutes passed before Ben finally made the call.

“Hey nurse, um, I think I’m ready, can you come in here and help me to the potty?”

“Oh I’ll send someone in there right away,” a woman on the other end replied.

Five minutes passed. That’s like 30 minutes in destructive shit time and no one had come. Finally after about 8 minutes, one little 5 foot nothing girl came to lift this beast of a man to the potty. Needless to say, she struggled, and he giggled like being obese and topped off to the brim with excrement was hilarious.

“You may need some help little girl, but please hurry.”

She runs out to get back up, but it was too late. The moment her back foot left the room, the bomb had reached 0:00 and the poop had exploded everywhere.

I cried that night. It didn’t matter that the bomb recovery team was there seconds afterwards. I didn’t care that they disinfected everything and eventually made the room smell like a Mediterranean summer breeze. No, none of that mattered. My soul was tainted with poop. My public poop virginity was stolen. Minus the obvious smells, I now knew what wet shit hitting the floor actually sounded like…and I can never un-hear that.

This was only day one with a man I will now only address as Mr. Pissy McPooppants.

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One thought on “Poop Police: And Other Fine Stories From My Stay At The Hospital

  1. poopstah says:

    HAHAHAHA! This was great! Who would not want to be woken up by a noise like that every morning?

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