Tag Archives: Constipation

Constipation

I have pondered for more than a week whether or not to tell this tale, and to be honest I don’t know at the moment that I am scratching out a first draft with pen and paper if I will actually complete it. If I end up doing so I will then have to decide if I will publish it. This may not be a story for all readers. My good friends, wonderful people all of them, may feel uncomfortable reading about this experience which I am about to share. If that is the case, please don’t read this. My sole intent is to share information in the hope that anyone who reads this will take precautions to prevent a severely painful situation which I experienced from happening to them, but I value my friends above most things in life and would never want them to feel uncomfortable reading anything that I write.

I never want to publish a story simply to shock, and the story that I have now set out to tell consists of details unsavory enough to shock and gross out many people. I suppose the trick will be to see if my writing skills are adequate to deal with the topic in a way that gives objective information of a deeply personal story in a way that the unpleasantness of the topic doesn’t detract from the point. I will assess upon completion of my first draft whether or not I have achieved my goal. Only then will I push the ‘Publish’ button and send this out to a world which may not even be interested in it at all. We shall see. (author’s note: I obviously assessed this story and decided that it should be sent. As I wrote a moment ago, we shall see).

The title of this tale is simply “Constipation” and, not surprisingly, that is also the topic. And it is a topic that many people do not consider to be serious; the butt (forgive the pun) of an inferior comedian’s potty humor or something that old people in the retirement home speak about often. But when constipation, and I mean real constipation, hits you all of the jokes and laughter fall away and you find yourself praying for some kind, any kind, of relief. Most people can avoid constipation by eating a balanced diet, remaining active, and staying hydrated. Surgery changes all of that however, and it is in the context of a recent major surgery which I underwent that this story is being written.

I recently suffered a heart attack and had to submit to bypass surgery to enable my heart to receive an adequate supply of blood. I was under general anesthesia for over three hours and then given regular doses of a narcotic pain medication for the next five or six days on a regular basis. I tapered off of the narcotics over the next two weeks but still needed them sometimes in order to quell the ache in my chest so that I could sleep. A side effect of the anesthesia and narcotics is that they interfere greatly with normal bowel function, and part of my daily post-surgical physical examination was to listen for the sounds that normal, healthy intestines make. Mine were obviously making normal sounds, so other than a stool softening pill given to me once a day I received no other attention to this potential problem. That would come back to haunt me.

In addition to the effects of the drugs that I was now taking, the other three components of healthy elimination were removed. I was very restricted in my walking around or doing any other exercise by the fact that my split chest was now held together with wires and stitches, and the heart medications given to me made me very light-headed and therefore unable to walk very far or very safely. My appetite vanished after the surgery and even if it had not done so the diet was virtually devoid of fiber, and they wanted me to lose some of my body fluids for reasons I don’t understand so I was put on a diuretic. The result of this perfect intestinal storm was that by the time I was released to go home I had had one small bowel movement and that was all. I was told to be conscious to avoid constipation but not given a plan to do so which fit my new situation.

Returning home was a wonderful thing. I now had the foods which I like to eat and my appetite slowly returned. I ate a lot of salads and other greens, and drank a great deal of water too. I hoped that this would do the trick, but nothing came of it. By day three I began to suspect that I was in trouble, but my preoccupation with safely rehabilitating with my light headedness and healing chest wound, plus the effects of all of the drugs that I was taking, diverted my attention from what should have been a priority. On day four the degree to which it should have been a priority burst upon me with a pain that one could hardly imagine unless one experiences it firsthand, and experience it i did.

I could tell when I arose that morning that things were moving to a conclusion. I tried a couple of times to eliminate but the bolus of stool reached the last centimeter of my digestive tract and then refused to budge any further. I gave up after a while and arose to return to my place on the sofa, but the stool was far enough down to be painful. I hobbled gingerly back to the sofa and sat/lay in a position that caused the least discomfort and waited for something good to happen. Nothing good happened. This was at about ten in the morning.

After a couple of tries I had moved things along another millimeter or two, which only sufficed to lodge a bigger chunk of clay-like stool right at the porthole of freedom, where it was as painful as it could possibly be. It was like having the gnarled, knobby end of an Irish walking stick or the spiked ball of a medieval mace stuck in my rear end. After a few more tries I sent my wife to the store to purchase a laxative, which is precisely what I should have done four days earlier and would have it I had been properly (in my opinion) counseled upon discharge. The bad news, I later learned, was that the laxative was great for future bowel movements but would be of no use for the problem at hand.

Time after time I returned to the toilet, and each time the pain increased but no relief was obtained. I was beginning to get desperate. The pain was intense and offered no prospect of diminishing anytime soon. My wive later told me that she was approaching the point of taking me back to the Emergency Room, such was my physical discomfort and her emotional anguish from watching as I suffered. I finally found myself praying to God for relief, even though I suspected that God is not in the business of giving colonics. I knew that God, when He was with us on Earth, suffered greatly too and that He understood my pain, and that gave me some comfort although I confess that it wasn’t much.

By four thirty in the afternoon I clutched at my final straw. I asked my wife to go to the store and purchase an enema. When I was a kid we had one of those in the house, although I cannot remember ever seeing or hearing of it being used. I didn’t even know if they made the things anymore but as luck would have it, they do. My wife returned with my last best hope, and after about twenty minutes of assembly and test runs, we put this final plan into action.

At this point I will cease with close descriptions of this drama. They are gross and embarrassing. The procedure itself was painful in the extreme and not immediately successful. Repeated attempts, each one introducing a little more of the warm water which I hoped would loosen things up, resulted in having to clear and clean the nozzle while I waited in almost breathtaking pain so that I could try again. Finally, after the third attempt, while the nozzle was once again being cleaned and prepared for use, all hell broke loose.

I could hardly believe that my ordeal was over. I simply said to my wife “it’s out”, but she could scarcely believe it either. She continued to clean the nozzle and I repeated “it’s over. I got it out.” Finally she allowed herself to believe it, and we just looked at each other; her standing by the sink and me sitting there doing my own interpretation of “Game of Thrones”. The relief washed over both of us and we went about the business of cleaning me and the bathroom up.

I returned to my sofa, but this time in considerably less pain. It would still be the next day before the fire down below was finally extinguished. At this point I began to take the laxative, drink glasses of prune juice, and a glass of water containing a tablespoon of psyllium seed husks every day, plus up the fiber in my diet even higher. It was and continues to be my intention to never go through that again.

If anyone is still reading this tale of my scatological nightmare I would like to reiterate why I wrote it. I did not expect to need bypass surgery. We never know when such things will overtake us. Anyone reading this may find themselves tomorrow faced with a difficult and painful surgery in their immediate future and if, heaven forbid, that is the case you might find yourself in the same position that I was. If I have properly utilized this opportunity to tell one person this messy and embarrassing tale, and if it in turn results in that person avoiding the dreadful situation that I endured, then I will understand why I had to endure it at all and will celebrate that I was able to help that one person avoid the pain.

There is my story. I urge you, reader, to take it to heart and make of it what you will.

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Serious As A Heart Attack: Epilogue

Home at last. Home, where I can lie in my own bed, eat food of my liking, sleep in front of my cheesy old movies and relax while my body knits itself back together. At last I can truly heal, because I am home. At least that is what I thought. The reality however is that I have never before had my chest split open and sewn back up and been put on blood pressure and antiarrhythmic medications, so I really had no basis for expecting anything. And the unexpected is exactly what I got.

My appetite and enjoyment of the taste of food did not return right away, and although I ate much more than I did while in the hospital, and ate much better stuff, there was little joy in it. A persistent light headedness continued and continues to make walking difficult, and the slightest hill of any sort will exhaust me almost instantly. The combination of less food and a lower sodium intake than before my surgery, plus my various medicines, led to dehydration which for one night put me back into the hospital. What a scare that was, as one of the possible causes of my problem could have led me back into the operating room to be opened up again. I think I would have preferred to slip into God’s arms rather than to do that. Fortunately for me, my problem did not need to be addressed in that manner, and I will always be grateful for that fact.

One thing that I mentioned earlier was the threat of constipation, the result of anesthesia plus pain medication plus heart medications. I ate salads and veggies galore and other high fiber foods, drank a lot of water, and still fell afoul of constipation. To a great many people that seems like a minor problem, a humorous side-note, a potty joke. It was none of those things. Constipation is a vastly painful condition which is exacerbated when in the context of major surgery, which left me in agony for at least six hours and almost sent me back to the Emergency Department, so awful was it. I feel constrained not to describe my pain or the difficult and messy manner by which my constipation was resolved because I believe that the story should be told in detail with proper prefaces so that the reader will understand from the very beginning that there is nothing in that story meant to be funny or gross or shocking or anything else. If I ever write that story it will be because I hope that at least one person will read it and take it to heart so that they never have to go through what I went through that day.

And then there’s the sweating. I would wake up in the middle of the night with bedclothes, sheets and pillows drenched in a cold sweat. I assume all of the medications I had taken plus the anesthesia had to work their way out of me, and also my improved eating which replaced what was already a fairly good diet was probably liberating toxins stored up in fat cells which were now melting away. I have lost nearly fifteen pounds since my surgery and the junk stored in those fat cells has to get out one way or another. My wife was kept busy washing clothes and sheets and pillow covers every morning for much of the first week that I was home. This has now subsided and I hope is at an end, although I deep protective coverings over my bed just in case.

Still, there have been many things at home that have lived up to my hopes. I cannot go into my garden but I can see it from the deck or a window, and I can eat out of it. I would love to pull the weeds creeping amongst my rows and beds and lift the drooping tomato plant branches and support them with cloth slings tied to wooden frames that I have build around the plants, but that is not to be for now. Instead I can watch my wife and my son water and tend and harvest my vegetables, and that counts for a lot.

So it’s been two steps forward and one step back; one step forward and one step back, and so on. My recovery is very likely to take the whole three months that I have been given off from work, and I still wonder if I will have the energy to return to what can be a physically demanding job. I’m not overly concerned about that as we could probably do all right if I was to retire, but I did not want to do that yet and it would be a hardship of sorts if I should have to. I will continue to pray for healing and be comforted to know that I have family and many good friends praying for that end as well.

Now it’s time to tell other tales and lighten the mood. No matter what happens from this point on, my life has still been an interesting one, to me at least, with many stories to write and hopefully many laughs to share with my readers. And from now on when I am tempted to respond to somebody’s question of ‘seriously?’ by saying “I’m serious as a heart attack”, I believe that I will catch myself and ask “was I really that serious?” My guess is that the answer will be that I am not quite that serious after all.