Pressdog.com

Number 2, 1, Slashdown

By Bill Zahren
(Posted 12/06/99)

Right in the middle of his hot beef sandwich, my 65-year-old father’s eyes bugged out and he started to grin.

“Uh-oh,” he said. “I think we’re in business.”

Dad grabbed the hospital intercom device like a drowning man grabbing a life preserver. “I need help getting to the bathroom,” he said urgently, “TO HAVE A BOWEL MOVEMENT.”

He beamed with hope and anticipation. Break out the finest meats and cheeses. Kill the fatted calf -- my father had to drop some kids off at the pool, unleash the brown sewer trout, have a “BM.” (Go number 2.)

“I don’t know,” my wife, Rhonda, said after reading my first draft of this. “That’s kind of weird. I mean, talking about your Dad going to the bathroom. If I ever have surgery, you’re not writing about it.”

Yes I will, but I’ll write about how perfect her hair looked coming out of recovery and how the nurses all said, “Wow, is your wife malnourished? She looks so THIN.” But she’s not allowed to require surgery, so we don’t have to worry, do we? But as for the old man, we’re sticking with the subject at hand (if you’ll pardon the mental image). Eliminating waste is a part of nature, and an important one, judging by how doctors quiz you up about how your “stools” have been and if you’re “regular.” And tell me you don’t feel like a million after a successful visit to the bathroom.

Both my sister and my father inform me that, after surgery, you quickly become fixated on defecating. My sister, Teresa, had a malfunctioning adrenal gland sliced out earlier this year (speaking of stunning hair coming out of the recovery room). My dad had a hip replaced on November 30. Both came out of it tightly bound, if you get my drift. Must be the drugs or shock of surgery or something. I remember my sister nearly came to tears recounting her first post-operative shuffle to the biffy. The fact that doctors and nurses start using the e word (enema) if you fail to move on your own makes it even more important to get things going.

Other than anticipating The Movement, my dad (Gerald) got through joint replacement fine. All he remembers is “some hammering and sawing.” Those nutty orthopedic surgeons love their power tools. So much so that they should wear service station scrubs with their first names stitched in cursive in small ovals over the breast pockets. Grease rags tucked in their back pockets, black work shoes -- striking.

Near as I can tell from watching hip replacement surgery on TV, the doctors unzip your hip and upper leg like a garment bag, get the bone exposed and then go for it with hammers and chisels. It’s medical construction in there. Bits of bone and tissue flying around.

After all that, Gerald was en fuego to get up and walking. Shuffling around in brown street shoes, white stockings and a hospital gown. From the knees down he looked like something out of the signing of the Constitution. All he needed was some big buckles on his shoes. Oh, he was Mr. Smug, giddy as a school boy. Gotta get the second hip done ASAP, next week if possible, 'cause golf season is coming. The hip doctor thought not. But then again, it’s easy to be a big talker when you have Mr. Morphy-“Living Large”-Um running through you. About the time you think you’re the man of steel, they unhook the I.V. and take you down to physical therapy. Who’s smiling now, Sparky? “OK,” the therapist says with a bemused look on his face. “Move your leg like this.” YOW. HELLO.

At least dad came out of it with enough medical related stories to last him about 34 years. He can sit around and swap them with random strangers. He’s north of 60 now, so that means he has no problem with discussing details of his or anyone else’s medical conditions openly, preferably over a meal. For example, I was sitting around with my dad and his sister (my aunt) once and they were talking about a mutual friend who had been sick. My aunt suddenly blurted out:

“They took his testicles last March.”

I fell to the floor. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to go into the bathroom to A) be sick and B) check on the boys. I draw the line at talking about a third party’s testicles, thank you very much.

Anyway, after Gerald called for help getting to his bowel movement (given access to the hospital-wide intercom, he would have used it to announce the impending delivery) he did in fact achieve splashdown. He emerged from the bathroom a renewed man. Now dad is hot to get the left hip overhauled. Looks like within six weeks we’ll get to go through the whole Countdown to Toilet Use again.

I hope to be there to share the blessed event. Just for the record, if I ever do write about my wife using the toilet, the word “dainty” will definitely be in there. (Don’t mention it, hon. Just my way of saying I love you.)

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