Lynn Gardner: My Life As Shitty Slapstick


My Life As Shitty Slapstick

Wake up in the wee small hours of the morning, desperate to pee. Stumble out of bed to realize I also really need to empty my ostomy pouch, but whatever, I'm headed to the right place, anyway. Arrive at the toilet still only half awake. Decide it is more important to empty my pouch than my bladder. Empty pouch. Start to tidy the end with a bit of tissue. Sudden, godawful, gurgling sound from my stoma and watery, almost entirely colorless, poo shoots down my pouch, out the opening and, missing the toilet entirely, splashes all over the floor.

Horrified, I stare at the floor for what seems like hours, before hesitantly reaching for the hand towel hanging above the sink. I don't want to sacrifice the hand towel, but I don't know what else to do. So I lean forward.

And slip. Slip on my own watery poo. And fall. Whacking my chest against the corner of the sink as I go down. Down, down, onto my knees in the watery poo. Still desperate to pee.

Best. Night. Ever. At least I didn't brain myself, eh?

(And the bruises. Dear heaven, the black-purple-green-blue peacock bruises. At least no-one can see them when I'm clothed, because I don't know how to explain them in a way that doesn't involve poo!)

1 comment :

  1. Ain't getting older a kick? Having a sense of humor about these things is so important in my book. Glad you weren't seriously hurt!


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