A Rumbled Rambling

Talk about stress.

As if going to the allergist for my annual "get 304 needles in the arms to see how I react to different allergens" isn't stressful enough for me to have a nervous breakdown and an asthma attack simultaneously, I end up having one of my "uh oh" moments.

This is how I define my "uh oh" moments: I suddenly get a pang in the lower half of my belly, something akin to the wringer in a washing machine slowly squeezing your entrails through its rollers. I have learned that this means I had better get my sorry butt into a washroom, and fast, before explosive diarrhea takes control like a gunman going postal.

I am in the midst of trying to figure out what is wrong with my gut. I'll be sure to keep you posted as I go through my various invasive procedures. I know you can hardly wait.

Anyway, as I was saying, I'm sitting in the waiting room of my allergist's office earlier this week, and I go "uh oh". I am at first hopeful, and think that maybe if I ignore the pangs of impending doom riling in my lower abdomen, it will go away. So, I rifle through another Reader's Digest magazine, trying to take my mind off the heat that continues to grow in my belly.

Soon enough, I know it can no longer be avoided. The rumbling, groaning, wrenching skewers of pain are making their way down my gut, and my buttocks and anus begin to tremble in unison, and I know it's just a matter of moments before something really unfortunate occurs.

The waiting room is empty, silent, and small.

I quietly ask the receptionist where the washroom is as I wipe the beaded sweat from my forehead. She smiles and points right behind me. "Right there," she says, with the cheeriest voice I've ever heard. I wanted to punch her. I turn. Oh. Yup, there it is, right there, like the kind woman said. Right there, beside the small and very quiet waiting room.

Now, I'm thinking there is no way out of this. I have to go into that room that is adjacent to the tiny waiting room, and whatever happens happens. This is it. No matter what I say or do now, everyone will know that I'm not just going in for a quick pee.

Deep breath. Close the door. Turn on the light. Time is running out.

I see another switch. I flip it up, and lo and behold, a fan comes on! However, it's not one of those really loud and raucous fans that usually annoy the hell out of you, but sure come in handy when the poop hits. No, this one is quiet, sounding more like the muffled whine of the wind as you ride your bike on a sunny, quiet, windless day.

All righty, then, I say, this is what it is, and I have to be grown up about it and just deal with it. After all, I reason, everyone has bowel movements. Everyone has moments of complete and utter embarrassment. Let's just get this done and over with, shall we?

So, I go ahead and do my due diligence, trying to control my bowels so that what occurs is a slow and gentle slide instead of one explosive cannon bomb. And for the most part, it works. I heave a sigh of relief, thinking to myself that the worst is over. Not much noise, the smell will vanish with a few minutes of quiet fanning, and I didn't pass out. Not bad, not bad at all.

My joy is short-lived. I realize the toilet has no visible flushing mechanism. What the hell? I look for an electric eye. You know, those annoying automatic toilet eyes that tell the toilet when to flush? Those eyes that think you're all done when you're just adjusting? Nope, no electric eye.

Then I start thinking about the movie Dumb and Dumber, and the scene where Jeff Daniels is stuck at this gorgeous woman's resort cabin in the washroom with a toilet that won't flush. And I'm thinking, this can't be. My luck could not be any worse.


Dumb & Dumber - Broken Toilet - These bloopers are hilarious


Yes, that was me. My hair looked somewhat better, though. And there was no window in my bathroom...

Anyway, after I try to get over the shock of my predicament, I notice a tiny little metal knob on top of the toilet. Wow, I say to myself. Incredible. How could I have missed that? So, feeling relieved (in more ways than one), I push down on the button. Nothing. I push again. Again, nothing.

Now I'm on the verge of sobbing. And trying to think of ways I could silently slink out of the washroom, past the receptionist and others in the waiting room, and into the corridor without anyone seeing me. Not possible, I decided. Ain't gonna happen.

By chance, I try the knob one more time, and by chance, my hand remains on the knob as I take my hand off it, pulling the knob up with my hand. Remember, this was all done accidentally. It was as if a magical, invisible hand was reaching down over mine.

And lo and behold, the angels sang and the toilet flushed.

I was sure the heavens were watching over me that day when I heard the sweet sound of swirling water being forced down the pipes. A more holy sound I have not heard. Maybe I will start going back to church again, because if that wasn't a sign, I don't know what is.