Crap Chronicles: When IBS Strikes in all the Wrong Places



  Crap Chronicles: When IBS Strikes in all the Wrong Places

  By Diana Estill

  Copyright

  Crap Chronicles: When IBS Strikes in All the Wrong Places

  Copyright 2011 – Diana Estill

  All rights reserved

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Mayhem on the Macal

  Fish Food

  Toxic Twins

  Woman vs. Food

  Holding Pattern

  Beach Water Bingo

  Mexican Food Two-Step

  Other books by Diana Estill

  Introduction

  The following stories are ones I swore I’d never write, private tales my family shares when we’re together. We disclose these embarrassing accounts to each other, and sometimes we share them with outsiders who’re at risk of becoming married kin.

  You see, we are The Crap Clan, a family of IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome) sufferers, a group that likes to “one up” each other with increasingly dire stories of diarrhea. Our anecdotes are not for those with sensitive natures. Anyone who’s offended by fart jokes and potty humor won’t last long at one of our family functions.

  To further expand on that, dear reader, if you’re put off by poop, this collection of essays might not be right for you. But if you laughed at that scene in Dumb and Dumber—you know the one—or can appreciate the humor inherent in losing bowel control in remote settings where porcelain is as abundant as the Dodo bird (pronounced “dough-dough,” not “doo-doo”), then please continue reading.

  All of the events described herein are true, or, if not, they’re as close to factual as I can recall. In a few cases, I’ve altered the names of the guilty parties to protect their good, if potentially false, reputations.

  Initially, I’d planned to change all the names, including mine, thinking nobody would want to become famous for fecal deposits. But when I mentioned this idea to a few kinfolks, they shrugged. One individual replied, “Why change my name? Everyone experiences diarrhea. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Truth be told, most people have crapped their britches at least once during adulthood. Those who haven’t yet, likely will—provided they live long enough.

  Globally, intestinal disorders plague a bazillion persons (not an exact figure) each year. In my family, the average distribution of sufferers is nine of every ten tested, and by “tested,” I mean served any dish that’s Southern, smothered, or seasoned with a spice stronger than salt.

  Despite our gastric deficiencies, my relatives and I lack the willpower to turn down a greasy burger or a platter of “loaded” cheese fries. Accordingly, our diets, coupled with normal daily stress, have triggered some of the worst urges at the least opportune times. We’ve been stranded on rural roadways, confined in a canoe, caught in the Caribbean, sidelined during a marathon, doubled over in the desert, and left without wipes at times when only a fire hose could have done the job.

  After each of the aforementioned events, the victim could hardly wait to admit his or her mishap to the rest of the family. Talking about these episodes somehow became integral to full emotional recovery. Now we’ve chosen to “come out of the bushes” and confess to a greater audience. That collective decision gave birth to the following “Crap Chronicles.”

  ~

  Mayhem on the Macal

  “If you see a fer-de-lance swimming towards us, get out of the way,” our river guide said. “It will not change its course.”

  Wide-eyed, I glanced at my husband Jim and then over to the adjacent canoe where my dad and stepmother were seated. The four of us, accompanied by two tour guides, had just embarked on a half-day excursion on the Macal River, in Belize.

  I imagined invoking supernatural powers to avoid the most feared snake in Central America. If need be, I would defy the laws of physics to prevent contact with that venomous native. Immediately, I regretted having not brought along a loaded AK-47.

  “It’ll be fine,” hubby insisted, patting my hand.

  Our two canoes traveled in tandem, less than eight feet apart. At the helm of each vessel, a twenty-something-year-old guy rowed with one oar. Meanwhile, Jim and my sixty-four-year-old father pretended to bring up the aft of their respective watercrafts.

  My stepmother sat like Katherine Hepburn, one hand clinging to her sun hat, enjoying her center position as a slacker. I did my best to mimic her stance. Having been alerted to danger, I insisted on preserving sufficient energy for escape.

  My stomach gurgled. The burrito, rice, and black beans I’d eaten for dinner the night before hadn’t settled well. As a precaution, I’d swallowed an anti-diarrhea pill before we’d left our hotel that morning. From what I could tell, the medication wasn’t working.

  I adjusted the beach towel under my bottom and hoped I wouldn’t soon need to fashion a terrycloth sarong. This wasn’t the place to request an emergency potty break. If I got the squirts, Dad’s life could be in danger. He’d never pass up the chance to tease me, and I suspected the only way to make him stop would be to drown him.

  We drifted through the rainforest, passing jungle lands inhabited by tapirs, bats, and toucans. However, I missed seeing all these creatures because my eyes were trained on the potentially lethal water.

  My stepmother waved at me from her perch. If she had a peril alarm, it must have been broken.

  What’s wrong with her? Surely she doesn’t think the man who pulled a black stocking over his face on Halloween and terrorized me when I was a kindergartner is going to protect her now.

  A cramp seized my lower intestines. I used mind control to will away the threat, the same way I mentally discouraged Dad from wearing his scarlet Speedo anytime he and I shared the same hemisphere.

  Ahead, around the bend, the river widened and grew deeper. We coasted past a pretty Mayan girl and three younger boys bathing in waist-deep water, fully clothed. In kind of a two-for-one effort, they managed to wash themselves and their outfits at the same time.

  On the banks nearby, a woman who may have been the children’s mother pounded laundry on a river rock the size of a tractor tire.

  I wondered if the fer-de-lance was nothing more than a local myth intended to prevent tourists from mucking up the communal pool and washateria.

  By the time we’d returned to the tributary’s shallower depths, despite my best efforts to contain what ailed me, some of my belly bloat had escaped. The pungent yet inaudible farts threatened to destroy entire villages downstream. I pitied Jim’s unfortunate seating position. He made a bitter face and then gave me a look that said, “Good grief, was that you?”

  “I’m sick,” I mouthed, which seemed a bit redundant because I’d already made that odiferous announcement.

  Miles from the nearest indoor plumbing, my discomfort quickly turned to full-blown distress. Jim stopped rowing and motioned to my father. “She’s going to have to find a bathroom, quick,” he hollered.

  Our two guides pulled the canoes to a stop about fifteen feet from land. “We’ll wait for you here,” the man in charge said. He pointed to the overgrown vegetation on my left. Beyond a slight incline, amid towering trees, lay open grassy areas.

  “I’m not getting out in this river,” I yelped. “Are you crazy? Can’t you pull up to the bank?”

  The canoe captain stared at me as though I’d just asked him to hail a taxi.

  Dad’s paunch jiggled as he chuckled.

  “We’re not in Disney World. There’s no dock to pull up to,” Jim said. “You’re going to have to get out of this canoe… unless you plan to crap your pants right here, in which case we’ll all
be getting out of the boat.”

  I grabbed my beach towel. “If I’m getting out, you’re coming with me. I’m not walking through there alone.”

  Jim heaved a sigh.

  My stepmother called out, “Go on the other side of that hill where we won’t see you.”

  I didn’t need to be told to hide myself from public view. At home, I’d never once sat on the crapper and left the bathroom door open. My own spouse had never witnessed more than the aftermath of one of my attacks, and he’d done that only because of an untimely toilet malfunction.

  Attacking the river in giant leaps, I splashed and thrashed in case any snakes might be in pursuit. But my only follower was Jim, who was now soaked from the waist down. “I’m going to need that towel,” he groaned.

  Up the embankment I went, checking over my shoulder.

  When I was securely out of sight, I threw my terrycloth makeshift screen to hubby.

  He dabbed at his body with the towel.

  “Nooooooo!” I fumbled with my shorts’ zipper. “That’s to hold up in front of me so no one can see me!”

  Jim spread his arms wide and turned his head, though I think morbid curiosity made him peek.

  As soon as the curtain materialized, my modesty disappeared. I cut loose a butt blast of something that burned like pepper sauce and smelled far worse.

  To my dismay, no one had recently toilet papered the rainforest. So I had nothing to use for cleanup. My beach towel would be needed later, and my reluctant assistant wasn’t wearing any socks I could confiscate. Abandoning my underwear, I pulled up my khaki Bermudas and cinched my belt a notch looser than before.

  I turned away from the river and gazed inland, wanting nothing more than to distance myself from my nasty deposit. That’s when I realized my guard must have been watching me instead of our surroundings.

  About fifty yards behind the patch of land I’d just fertilized, an indigenous family of six gawked at me. They stared as though they’d never seen a tourist exhibit such immodesty. Or perhaps such a blindingly white hiney.

  “Why didn’t you tell me they were there? Didn’t you see them?” I shrieked.

  “No, I couldn’t see anything,” Jim said. “My eyes were burning from all the fumes.”

  We made our way back to the canoe with me watching vigilantly for anything that might slither.

  “There’s a restroom up ahead, at the Medicine Trail,” our guide advised. “Do you think you can make it another mile?”

  I nodded, wondering if I’d overestimated both my condition and sphincter.

  At the Medicine Trail, a slender, middle-aged Belizean man greeted our party and studied my skin tone—which I’m told had turned from blushing mango to iguana corpse-green. The host immediately recognized my condition and pointed to the nearest restroom. “Come see me when you return,” he said. “I have a cure.”

  Unless he had a transporter to instantly beam me home, I doubted the truth of his remark.

  After I’d taken care of business, I sauntered back to the medicine man. “What ‘cha got?” I asked.

  With one hand, the attendant reached inside his pants pocket and withdrew something. He extended his arm and held out a closed fist as though it contained a magic potion. Whatever it was, I was game. I would wear, inhale, or ingest anything the man offered if it would treat my “traveler’s trots.”

  Opening his leathery palm, he displayed a prickly object about the size of a walnut. “Tapaculo,” he said, as though he were announcing a game show prize.

  I accepted the mysterious gift.

  “It means—” The Belizean Pat Sajak appeared to search for words. “—stop up your butt.”

  What he’d given me looked more like a cocklebur than a cork. Surely he didn’t expect me to stick that up my…. “It’s a butt stopper?” I asked.

  The others, who’d been silent through this exchange, could no longer contain themselves. Jim, Dad, and my stepmother giggled. “No!” Jim said. “You eat it, silly.”

  The would-be pharmacist grinned and nodded.

  To be polite, I attempted to chew the spiny seed with little success. However, as it turned out, the mere thought of swallowing a tapaculo healed me.

  ~