Too Posh To Poop

...or just plain terrified.

For many blissful years we lived with a separate but equal bathroom policy. We did everything in front of each other, except for that.

Let's face it. Women DO do Number Two (I cringe as I write this and I will also vehemently deny it once this post is up). I don't want to talk about it, but I fear I must because no one else does, and it was such a terribly unexpected part of my recovery.  My doctor never mentioned this, neither did the birthing coach.  So discuss it we must.

The only time we actually don't do it is post-delivery. And that's not because we don't have to, it's because we don't want to. Imagine you have just pushed out a baby - do you want to know what your body feels like afterwards?

I'll tell you.

Imagine taking a cheese grater to your nether regions, pulling out some innards, and perhaps taking on a few stitches along the way. Yes, it sounds bloody awful, I know. But everything down there is Bombs over Baghdad. It IS awful.  You can also imagine that any sort of pressure down there after this is a fearsome, horrible thing.

We can barely bring ourselves to sit on the toilet, let alone DO anything there. I tentatively approached the bathroom only when my body desperately needed to go, perched gently on the seat and squeezed my eyes shut, praying my body wanted to keep it all in.

But that isn't the way we function, sadly. What goes in must come out. It took days. I needed those days just to re-learn how to pee.

When the function that shall not be named (POOP!!! POOP!!!) finally did need to make an appearance I thought I was dying. No I'm not being dramatic...DYING! I was in pain giving birth all over again. I felt light-headed and saw dark spots swimming before my eyes. I had visions of Andy finding me indecorously slumped on the marble floor, stretched out used-to-be-cute undies around my ankles with my loose track pants pooling at my feet. I don't even want to talk about the thought of popped stitches (shudder)!

I called to him. Okay, truth be told, I screamed for him to come and sit with me. He might have held my hand, perplexed at what was going on.

We have never been closer.

There is and was an easy solution to my hard, er, difficult, problem. The next day he came home and gently placed a tiny little bottle in front of me. Colace? What was this?

"The doctor had mentioned you might want to take this"

What was this tiny little red capsule going to help me with?  I couldn't imagine this bottle actually contained magic.

It worked. It was almost make the trip to the loo. I no longer feared that cold bathroom, or that hard seat.  The embarrassment of having broken the golden rule of our marriage thus far remained (remains) but you know, it was time to break down barriers.

Now if you see me walking down the street please don't pause to chat; I don't want to look any of you in the eye. You know too much. 

Shit Happens.