Scott was bored yesterday, and called me to chat.
It was neither the time or the place.
I was sitting on the throne, the dog standing in front of me as a kind of guardian, willing and able to step in for a hug. The sweat was beading on my forehead, and my tush was uncomfortably numb.
I tried to carry on with the conversation, but eventually, I had to give Scott the bum’s rush. The battle between me and Joel was about to reach a crescendo, and like Newfie foreplay, I needed to brace myself.
These kind of scenarios are getting rarer and rarer, thanks to Dr. B’s advice to follow a “low residue diet” which consists mainly of foods I would feed a finicky four-year-old. The diet is highly restrictive on fiber meaning I can only have 8 gms every day. That means a virtual end to roughage of any kind — fruits, vegetables, nuts — all of the stuff doctors have tried to make us eat over the years.
It’s not the worst diet but it is really, really uninspired. Last night, Scott had pizza and I had chicken alfredo. The night before, he had lamb chops and I had cod. I can still have many of my favorite foods like spaghetti bolognese and a roast chicken dinner, two meals I might choose if I were on death row. I can also have my beloved Haagen Daaz ice cream and chips, so all in all, it’s not bad at all.
Except it is. It’s only human nature to want what you can’t have especially when limiting wine consumption to once a week. When I don’t drink, I want to eat. When I don’t eat, I want to drink. It’s the reptile in me, and I acknowledge it.
The last few weeks have been a bit tough. I have to make sure I don’t get constipated which might give Joel the Cancer Troll a licence to close the bridge for good. I have to keep things moving, and I am therefore terrified of that heavy feeling that means I’ve eaten too much, too soon, and it’s time to pay the piper. I don’t relish the idea of emergency surgery, and so I do my best to manage.
I realize part of my problem is that I had gotten used to a colonoscopy every couple of weeks during the diagnostic phase so my colon hasn’t really gotten a chance to get all gummed up, if you get my meaning.
Last week, I was a bit frantic, with the heaviness. That’s because my normal digestive system was rebelling against the crap I was serving it. And it was already irritated after I’d had to starve myself twice for colon prep. Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle.
Picture this at 3 a.m.
“Rose, it’s your stomach speaking. What the actual fuck? Where’s the food?”
Me.
“You had a perfectly good three squares yesterday. Stop the complaints and let me sleep.”
Stomach.
“Yeah, but you can’t be trusted. Feed me.”
Meanwhile the intestines jump in.
“Where’s the Goddamn fiber? I don’t have much to work with down here.”
I tried Ensure, but it was ick.
Then I found the solution.
Pillsbury Cheese Pizza Pockets! Only two grams of fiber for two of them. Okay, 500 calories, but so what? So down they went. But oh no! I had forgotten that I’d just chugged a bucket of Restoralax, that wonderful fun filled drink that loosens everything up.
Two pizza pockets and that drink and boom! I am a Queen in search of a throne.
I’m thinking of setting up my office in the loo.
Maybe put egg cartons on the ceiling to mute the noises coming forth. And noise cancelling headphones for the dog.
This is no way for a grown woman to live. Living and working in the bathroom guarded by a giant chocolate lab who is really there in case there is an empty toilet roll or an open bathtub faucet.
And it’s not the kind of small talk I want to have with my husband for the rest of my live. (A conversation I now have every. single. night.)
“Hi, dear. How was your day. Did you shit yourself today?”
“Not since I moved the office to the bathroom. And I added a small fridge and microwave for the Pizza Pockets.”
I pause for the cause. I had news.
“I just got a job as a social media influencer for Pillsbury. Getting a million clicks a day from digestive sufferers!”
Hey. When you have lemons…
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="
title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" referrerpolicy="strict-origin-when-cross-origin" allowfullscreen></iframe>
I don't know where you keep that sense of humour but it's truly funny. Sheila is right: there's a Yuk Yuks night in your future!!
Beahahahahaha….😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂…standup is n your future!😂😂😂