MERMAIDS: THE PATRON SAINTS OF SOILED PANTS
Did anyone ask for this post? Absolutely not.
Are you wondering why all the talk of dirty drawers? Also probably not.
That’s what I am here for though, to give you the things you didn’t request. I’m like Mountain Dew Baja Blast. No one asked for it. There’s something kind of “off” about it. Yet it’s still around isn’t it? And much like the fuzzy sweaters that form on your teeth as you drink The Baja, I too hope to slowly grow on you with prolonged ingestion…
Back to the matter at hand…
We’ve all been there, Chemo or not. That “Oh crap, did I just crap?” moment that leaves you wondering if you should stand up or hold steadfast in your seat. Your eyes darting rapidly to-and-fro as a hot sweat forms on your brow and an even hotter sweat forms in your trousers.
For those who are disgusted as they read this. I commend you. I commend you for not having your pride ripped from your ass in a fleeting moment of false-security. Not all of us are so lucky as to have trustworthy farts and a steadfast colon that doesn’t leave us high-and-dry, while also leaving us anything but…
(I will point out that it took everything in me not to put an additional “t” on the end of “but” in that last sentence. This post is RIFE with wordplay opportunities and I am here to play ball…)
For those of you out there who have found themselves in precarious situations regarding soilage of pants, you are not alone.
For some, it comes after a fleeting moment of vulnerability as you sit in traffic, your stomach rumbling and that Bell-shaped beacon ringing strong and true, coaxing you from a hard U-turn right into the arms of the drive-way. If you’ve ever been hit by the Taco-Sprints, I see you. The heart wants what it wants.
For others, like myself, we have our failing immune systems and the chemical cocktail that is infused into us to thank for our moments of degradation. They don’t tell you all the ways in which Cancer will slowly peel away your Independence and Pride, leaving you in tears and wondering What’s that smell? like some warped onion. Some of the degenerative milestones come with a warning: the hair-loss, the nausea, the fatigue. Others are unexpected and propel you into a strange suspension of age. You are not the strong 25-yr-old you were when you walked into the Doctor’s office. You cling to your Mom as if you are a toddler. You can barely walk as if you are Geriatric. You are none of the above. You are all of the above.
Please do not take this as a blanket statement that all Cancer patients crap their pants. Some go through Cancer Treatment, radiating a profound Grace and Serenity that escapes words. They flow in and out of the Infusion Center as if they are floating on air, their feet not touching the hard, shiny ground. Their bald head fills the space of their infusion-cubicle perfectly, as if the air parted around them simply so they could fit.
I, however, would shuffle across the firm carpeting like a hunched raccoon smuggling a donut, wondering how difficult it would be to clean the carpeting as I took each precarious step. (Maybe this is why my parents once owned a floor-cleaning business…Some Higher Power’s perverse sense of full-circle humor. Our weird Slumdog Millionaire moment, yet instead of winning one-million Rupees, I was left looking for the nearest bathroom and wondering if they’d let me wear a backless gown out of the hospital if push came to soil.)
I stumbled, heaved, and drooled my way to where I am now, lying in bed by choice, not by necessity. I woke up many nights drenched in my own sweat and urine, so exhausted from the drugs circulating within my veins that my Brain dare not wake me, even to relieve myself. Ill-timed naps, walks, or drives meant bouts of embarrassment and frustration as I handed off my soiled clothes to be scrubbed, the walls of dignity I had built over the years crumbling.
I have always taken the daily function of my body for granted. Of course I could run. Of course I could communicate clearly (awkwardness aside). Of course I could use the restroom on my terms. It took losing a few of these at the age of 25 to realize that any degradation of these bodily functions is most often associated with Infants or Elders. The Ones whose bodies are still learning or rapidly forgetting. The Ones we sigh at or avert our eyes in pity.
But why do we pity the Enchanted? They speak languages we do not understand and see the world in ways only time affords, yet incontinence breeds indignity. Do we pity Mermaids, a group of Beings who most assuredly crap their pants on a daily basis by the sheer nature of their design? Why are they viewed as Mysterious and Beguiling, whereas anyone else who finds themselves in a colonic-conundrum is quickly demoted to Infantile?
As I would crawl my way through Target, packs of Depends weighing down my cart and sense-of-self, I would try to hide the senescent swag. What would someone think? “These aren’t for me,” I’d prepare to say. Hopefully the self-checkout line isn’t too long, I’d worry. Somehow my worth was directly correlated to my reliance on Depends. (Pretty comfy by the way. 7/10 would recommend…) All prior achievements and accolades were wiped clean as I stepped into my Adult Diaper.
Someone who should be at the “prime-of-their-life” was buying Depends in bulk and praying before bed that she wouldn’t have to change the sheets once again in the morning. I did not feel Mysterious. I did not feel Alluring. I felt like a rag-doll that clung from surface-to-surface until she could crumple onto a couch and lie there until it was time to make the return-trip back to bed. I sat around in a diaper as if I was a toddler. I slept through bathroom breaks as if I was Geriatric. I was none of the above. I was all of the above. If only I realized then that I was a Mermaid.
Now, there is a fine-line between keeping your head held high in moments of fragility and becoming a safety-concern. I am not saying everyone should just slap on Depends and live footloose and fancy free (though if this does take off, please refer to number 5 on the “Top-10 Things To Do When You Are Diagnosed With Cancer”). What I am saying is this, Life is fleeting, and so is the sale on Tide at Target right now (not sponsors), so stock up, stand tall, and be a Mermaid. You are not what happens to your pants.
Now, if you’re not feeling this Mermaid analogy I can’t fault you for that. Not everyone orders Baja Blast every time they make a Taco Bell (still not a sponsor) run. So, for those who find themselves at the mercy of their colons, with no signs of Society opening their arms to welcome soiled pants, and no Fish-People to look up to, I leave you with these quick-tips on how to best avoid shitting your pants:
1. Never trust a fart.
It seems counterintuitive. We are encouraged to trust ourselves in life. “Trust your gut,” they say. “Listen to yourself,” they suggest. “Blue-cheese is safe for human consumption,” they decree. All of this healthy self-talk should end wherever our colon starts. The colon is essentially a “Second Brain,” the various tunnels and neurological pathways serving as a sort of subconscious crossing-guard for our day-to-day emotions. Sometimes the wires get crossed, and in those instances, we gotta hit the Manual Override button of Self-assurance.
2. Depend on Depends.
They are the friend you never thought you’d need. The one who answers the call even when you don’t realize you will need help. They are the arms that cradle your cheeks in the most extreme trust-fall imagined. The Huggies of your youth have grown up, graduated from college, recently put a down-payment on a house, and are ready to connect emotionally in ways no other drawer has been able to before. These biddies are not coy, so don’t expect to fly under the radar with them. Though I wouldn’t exactly describe Mermaids as subtle either… (I mean a shell-bra? Really? Desperate much?)
3. Always carry a jacket with you.
It should be a jacket you are fine never being able to look at the same again. This jacket will become your invisibility cloak as you tie it around your waist and shuffle to the nearest bathroom…
4. Don’t wear pants.
Basic math, if you don’t wear pants, you can’t shit them. Thank you for coming to my TEDTalk. (Surprisingly they haven’t called me yet…)
5. Remember that this too will pass.
You’ll clean yourself off, burn the clothes you had on, and hold your chin up high, because you are a damn Mermaid.