“Babe, did you poop today?”
That’s one of the most frequent questions from my husband lately. Sexy, right!
My response is usually a deep sigh followed by a pathetic, “No.”
Is menopause the cause of the plugged pooper? You can’t blame everything on menopause, according to my lady doc so she’s sending me to a GI doc. Great…
Meanwhile, back at the farm, my husband was getting pretty tired of listening to me bitch about my bowels so he took matters into his own hands. He had a solution, he said. I wanted no part of it… at first.
Then I envisioned the scenario that had become all too familiar lately: Me, heading to the bathroom, little to no confidence of having any success, my husband anxiously awaiting my exit on the other side. Then the evitable question: “Well, did ya?” Me, responding with a pitiful “No,” stomach clenched with both arms, my head hung low as I took my walk out of shame through the doors of our master bedroom.
He finally stopped me in the kitchen…
“I know what you need to do if you would just listen to me.”
I shook my head, still clenching stomach.
“Babe, you’re standing there in pain because your poop chute is all backed up, but I’m telling you THIS will help.”
THIS was a bottle of Milk of Magnesia. I could smell the taste in my head from my childhood. I was ready to make a run for it, but the constipation-induced cramps that I can only compare to the early onset of labor pains convinced me otherwise.
I was OK with taking a swig straight from the blue bottle, but my husband, the level-headed one in the relationship (obviously), poured the proper dose.
- 2 tablespoons of Milk of Magnesia with a cup of warm water as the chaser
It was, by far, one of the most horrific things I’ve ever tasted in my life! I’m talking about the warm water.
It was disgusting. Maybe it was the fact that he microwaved the water to get it really, really warm that it was almost hot. It was like drinking really warm bathwater.
And then I threw up.
And then I threw up again… and again… and again.
I pulled myself together, cleaned myself up and headed for the living room to see my husband.
“WTF, babe!” is about all I remember saying before making a dash back to the bathroom… where I threw up again.
I felt icky from head and toe so I jumped in the shower… and I threw up again.
Finally out of the shower, I was drained and completely exhausted. I crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling, ready to make a deal with the Gods of the Innards so that I may finally take a shit.
My husband eventually came in to check on me and said some nice things, I’m sure, but I couldn’t hear him because my stomach kept interrupting him with some incoherent gurgling and squeaking.
Finally, around 4 a.m. my stomach started speaking perfect English. Or Spanish, I really don’t remember. It said…
“Girl, you best get your poop-filled ass out of bed and to the toilet right now! You hear me, I said right now!”
I literally pooped for two whole days. I didn’t dare leave the house. We need milk? Sorry, babe, it’s on you.
It took a few days, but I am back on track! Heading to the crapper is no longer a crap shoot. I’m walking in there determined and confident. I’m walking out of there like Sherman Helmsley as George Jefferson (I’m moving on up!) with a little pep in my step.