The First Time I Shit Myself

Was in October of 2001, and it’s complicated, as you’ll see.

See, shortly after high school, I moved halfway across the country because I could not get away from my hometown fast enough. This turned out to be a very bad decision.

Not even two months in, a cyst burst on one of my ovaries. The pain was so extreme and sudden that I passed the fuck out and literally crumpled to the floor. One second, I was standing, living my life. The next, I was waking up to my roommate standing over me. All I could manage to say was, “Something’s wrong.”

Maybe you’re thinking, “Oh, I bet that’s when it happened. I bet the pain was so intense that she immediately evacuated her bowels.”

But, NO! That’s not when it happened. In fact, it’s only loosely related to this.

So, what ended up happening was I was taken to the ER by a taxi, because apparently an ambulance would have charged me several hundred dollars, but my school would spring for a ride in a Yellow Cab. So I took a cab. To the Emergency Room. While my insides were exploding. Things like this are what make life so ridiculous.

That ER visit is mostly a blur because I was in and out of consciousness the whole time. (I actually kind of remember this positively because of the morphine. It was nice.) But my ultimate takeaway was that I was going to be okay, but that a cyst was basically a little toxin pocket that appears in or on the body. So, since mine burst, my system was suddenly flooded with toxins. They told me that I probably wouldn’t feel well for the next few days. They gave me some meds and sent me on my way, again, via cab.

And feel well I did not. Every day I got sicker and weaker. No matter how many blankets I had stacked on me, I couldn’t stop the intense chills that went straight down to my bones. My throat had all but closed up, so I couldn’t get any liquids into me, and eating? Forget about eating. This is another time that I was drifting in and out of consciousness, but I was so sick, I just couldn’t care.

I woke up in the ER again. I think my roommate must have taken me. Since I had been there earlier in the week for the ovary thing, everyone assumed that my present ailment was because of my ovary thing.

Zack Morris timeout. Turn to camera. You know, when I graduated high school, the best advice that they could think to give us was “wear sunscreen.” But my opinion is that the best advice is to never, ever, ever take on any kind of major life endeavor if you do not have someone who can act as your medical proxy when you are incapacitated. In hindsight, I feel pretty foolish for thinking I could manage this while fighting a 104 degree temperature. I’m sorry that this was a lesson I had to learn the hard way. I’d really like it if it didn’t happen to anyone else, so please, tell everyone you know.

Zack Morris time in. Resume scene. Everyone thought the reason I was sick was because they thought my junk was rotting, or something, I don’t know. So, I had a pelvic exam.  But that doctor couldn’t find anything, so they called in a colleague for a second opinion. That doctor also did a pelvic exam and also didn’t find anything. At this point, rather than entertain the notion that perhaps there was nothing to find and that’s why they weren’t finding anything, they brought in ANOTHER doctor.

I don’t know how long this Saturday Night Live skit went on for. Like I said, I had a 104 temperature, and I think it’s entirely possible that I was delirious at this point. The staff must have known that I was way too gone to make decisions because they kept asking, “When are your parents coming?” And I had to say over and over, “They’re not.” Because that’s just not something that happens.

Regardless, what I’m trying to tell you is that this situation was completely out of my control. I don’t remember consenting to anything. I don’t remember filling out forms or signing anything. It was chaos, and I don’t think I even had the strength to be afraid. At some point, I was being wheeled away for exploratory junk surgery. This never happened as I assume that this was the point when someone suggested the cause of my ailment might be viral.

They decided to keep me. I had tubes going in me and out of me every which way. I remember thinking the catheter was actually pretty convenient. It just so happened that I was on my period, and because they thought the cause of my affliction might still be junk related, I was denied a tampon. I couldn’t wear underwear because of the catheter, so use of a pad was also out of the question. What options were left to me? None. I bled all over myself.

I was wheeled into a private room, and while the doctors did the whole “we’re running tests” blah, blah, blah, “keeping you for observation” blah, blah, a couple of my friends and my roommate’s mother came in to wish me well. They surrounded the bed just like in the movies. It was touching.

And I thanked them by completely losing control of my bowels.

In fairness to me, I had been so weak that I hadn’t been able to eat for days, and I thought it was only a fart. Oh, but were it only a fart. So, it’s not like there was a lot of substance to it, but I’d be lying if I tried to play it off as just a minor sharting. I cannot deny- It was a prolific shart. 

Because I had lived there for only a couple of months at this time, I had JUST made friends with these people. Surely a public sharting would come as most unwelcome news.  Most unwelcome, indeed.

But I was lucky. (Why is that phrase making me laugh harder than anything else in this post?) I was lucky because I was covered in several hospital blankets to counteract my fever chill. No one saw anything, so everyone (but me) could operate under the usually safe, just not today, assumption that absolutely no one in that room had shit streaked on their inner thighs. (And blood! Don’t forget there was blood!)

I don’t really remember how I got myself out of this one. Maybe I didn’t, and I developed an unsavory reputation, but I think maybe I pulled a “Wow, what a day. I am so tired. It sure would be great if everyone left this room as soon as possible.” And then I think I thought I was going to somehow destroy the evidence, but all those tubes had me pretty well anchored to the bed. I had to swallow my dignity (of which there was little) and call a nurse.

I was in the hospital for five days.  Did you know that if you test for mono too early, it tests as negative and then they have to run every other test on you until they run out of tests, so they start the tests all over again, and THAT’S when they finally find out that it was mononucleosis that ruined your life?

That fever burned away a lot of my memories, and I always thought it was weird what I remember and what I don’t. For instance, in Freshman year, I stuck a note in my crush’s locker telling him I liked him. But then halfway through the day, I realized it was April Fool’s and became horrified that he might think I was pranking him. (He didn’t, and he let me down very kindly.) So, I get to remember that, but I can’t remember my first kiss. Or at least I think I can’t. It would have been a stage kiss anyway, so it wouldn’t really have counted, which is probably why I don’t remember it.

I used to feel really bad about my memory loss. It’s pretty embarrassing, and it’s always, always an absolute nightmare when I run into someone I used to know and I haven’t a clue who they are. (This has actually only happened two or three times, but it’s just so damn mortifying.) Carrie Fisher had elective ECT (electrotherapy) that damaged her memory, and she wrote about it in her book Wishful Drinking. She said, “Some of my memories will never return. They are lost- along with the crippling feeling of defeat and hopelessness. Not a tremendous price to pay when you think about it.” When I read that, I was finally able to make peace with my memory loss. It took twenty damn years.

So, anyhoo, I guess you’re wondering why I decided to tell you about the first time I shit myself (the FIRST time. So ominous.) in such detail. It’s because I have another confession to make. One so shameful and embarrassing I have literally only told three people ever. It’s a secret I’ve been carrying with me nearly my whole life.

And I would so much rather tell you about the time I shat with an audience than tell you what I’m about to tell you.

Okay.

Deep breath. I can do this.

When I was a kid, I used to PRETEND THAT SPOCK AND DATA WERE MY DADS!

There.

I said it.

Good day.

I said, good day!