Everybody Looks At Their Poop

The nurses at the hospital where I lived for 6 months, recovering from a stroke asked sordid and squalid questions.
How are your bowels dear?
Did you have a bowel movement today dear?
Do you need a laxative dear?

Fine, Yes, No. The next person to call me ‘dear’ in that condescending fashion while speaking too loudly….were my thoughts on the subject.
Still I managed my frustration with humour, at least humour to me; nurses have none, zero, zip.

Fine how are yours? Said with a sweet smile…invoking the lewd and lascivious innuendo of anal intercourse. I could see the thought bubble ‘creepy old man’.

I did, it was monstrous, like giving birth…the female nurses hated that metaphor.

And finally the one they most disliked that invoked the most jealousy and competitive rivalry: no thanks I’m regular as clockwork. They detested that, because they weren’t. I was given stoney looks, the glare of envy.

Why? Because everyone in medicine is concerned with money. So they cheap out on food, low fibre prefabricated crap carbs that sit in the intestines like cement bridgework. AKA hospital food. They eat at work, they think laxatives are normal, stools need to be softened as a lifestyle. Hoarders all, money and poop.

The first month I was there, with little control over my food choices, I was plugged like the Hoover dam. As I gained control over my income through a grant from an artists relief association (pun intended) and a purchase of my work by Cliff Eyland, I was able to avoid the pizza and pasta and add broccoli and green beans. It was similar to being in a Mexican prison, no money no food kind of thing. I ate in the public cafeteria, 10 slices of bacon and a tomato please. They thought I was brain damaged.

The dietician, when I finally got a consult, knew exactly what I was doing, very familiar with wheat belly, grain brain lifestyle of low carb.
I mean the dietician was trying to get diabetics to simply reduce salt, and here I was, her star patient dumping sugar and carbs like grains, and not diabetic or overweight or constipated, her diet dream come true.
She ordered changes to my menu, eggs for breakfast, chicken thighs and green beans for lunch, beef and broccoli for dinner, sugar free yogurt 3 times a day. I still had tomatoes and bacon for an afternoon snack in the cafeteria. Of course the dietician was roundly ignored by the kitchen, and the food servers. You can’t live on that! as they dumped pizza and pasta on my plate. They thought, like many patients, I had stroke induced dementia.

Ever try to argue with a nurse from Nigeria, 6 feet tall, with a strong accent, a poor grasp of English and clogged bowels? She is boss with a capital B for bowel movement. It ain’t gonna happen, not from a wheelchair. Finally I got the kitchen supervisor and asked her why were they ignoring the dietician? I mean these people are conservatives, would vote for Trump, hate authority, they think they know best, that kind of loading dock mentality.

She gave me a survey to fill out, to complete with a pencil with not much lead, with my left hand, the dominant right being flaccid. One of my heroes, Lord Nelson, commanded a large sea battle of sail rigged war ships while tied to a chair and only his left arm to use, at sea, in a storm. All I had to do was describe my lack of satisfaction 3 times a day for a week . Easy peasy.

I once lived with a nurse, bat shit crazy hated the sight of blood. We would drive by a motorcycle collision, those are alway life threatening requiring immediate treatment, saying to herself, “I’m not a nurse, I’m not a nurse…” She worked on the psych ward and ate at the hospital for free. One of her colleagues went home every night got into bed and ate a can of cake frosting. She was skinny as a rail with a large belly, apparently.
While I knew my nurse/lover she had three operations for hemorrhoids, couldn’t understand why I ate from my garden in Victoria where we lived. She thought I was growing pot and screwing the neighbors. Eventually she met a rich abusive engineer just like her Dad and quit coming home at night, so I insisted she move out. I saw her and the engineer 20 years later, both looked bitter and hateful and plugged up. A good match.

I once dated a female engineer, met her in Starbucks, that bastion of dispensed diuretics and laxatives in grande form. She was dealing with ‘a depression’ as she called it, on medical leave. She was smart and loved sex, could talk about things other than oil refineries which she built, but bored easily and played with her poop. We didn’t last, the 50 shades of poop was a deal breaker. I decided I would wait for the movie, then avoid the void. She decided to hate me for cause: poop rejection. Love me love my poop kind of thing.

People obsessed with their poop do that.They hate everybody. You can spot them a mile away by their gait, walking like their buttplut is in a little too tight. They really got perturbed, those butt-plugged nurses, when they would grab my boiled eggs to peel them, unasked, and I would say, “did you wash your hands?” Guilt ridden they assumed I knew their shame secrets, and they were right, who wants fecal matter on their boiled eggs?

I was really glad to get a new home 6 months later and move in…still am…what a shitty experience that was.