mere minutes after i was born, i took an enormous dump in my mother's lap, promptly deposited my thumb into my wailing trap and fell asleep.
[shit disturber from the day she was born.]
of course, that was never my objective, never the job description i aspired to marquee, and, like an antibiotic, that title has most certainly run it's course.
the good, the bad and the sickly. we showcase our mandated armband, strain to herculean heights, yet, barely qualify through our olympian, toilet trials. all in the name of the ceramic bowl.
our hurdles: illness, procedures, surgeries, medications.
when side effects become forces of nature. news at 11.
a passing wind, unpredictable drift; an interpretive gust nudging you over the rim. every morning on overimmunosuppression, a new odyssey. the commode chronicles: a tale so winding, so dense, the bathroom is the only place to attempt to conquer it.
so it was with a sunrise shiver of relief, that this fragmented soul noticed one, very solid piece to slot back into her cracks.
one. whole. complete.
there is no normal in this house.
[please. what's normal in blogging about your poop?]
with lowered lashes, and chin to chest, she still slogs her husband's clothes over her shameful bloat. for 120 days straight she's wrung out her eyes until salt blisters her view. and today's first craving for white wine oozed so potent, it could have sanitized a preschool.
one. whole. complete. this was like divine evacuation.
so if that shiny turd is a celestial beacon to a future of fewer side effects and greater relief.
then holy shit.