The stubby little antenna fell off my three year old Motorola cellular phone. In regards to wireless communication devises, something three years old may as well have been manufactured during the Paleocene era, right after the dinosaurs went away. Therefore, any thoughts of replacing the antenna were fantasy. I had to go buy an entirely new phone. I still don't understand why I need one. A few years ago the idea of owning a portable phone was laughable and to actually own one was extravagant. Now it seems as vital as air or water and I don't know why. Further, I hate the F'ing things.
Until my phone broke, I thought I was a Cingular customer. The phone that broke even said I was. Well, the phone and I were both mistaken. I am an AT&T customer. I know not how or why or when but that little splat guy that used to represent Cingular has been replaced by a stylized graphic representation of the globe. So the two companies apparently merged and my cell phone provider morphed from a little guy to the entire planet. What power they must now have! Well, even though I am less than a mile from one of those ugly F'ing antennae I still can't make or receive calls from my home, not even with my ridiculously complicated new phone. There is just no signal at my home.
I found out there are no telephones available that are simply telephones. The AT&T store must have had twenty some odd models and every one has a camera which will take both still and moving pictures, some with flash. Every model comes with internet accessibility, which they automatically charge you for the first month and, if you fail to cancel the service will continue to cost you $20/month (automatically added to your bill.) The devices all have so many features I can’t understand (much less want to pay for) I almost lost it in the store. The salesperson was prodigiously annoying and the choices are simply impossible. Okay, maybe I'm not smart enough, or maybe I was a little distracted by my colostomic activity.
In the event dear reader you are one of the three or four people on Earth that hasn’t heard, I am temporarily out of work because I had some abdominal issues. So if you didn’t know, well, you’re about to. If you already knew, I appreciate your patience as I enlighten those other folks. Until February 5th I crap into a bag that is basically pasted to the outside of a one and a half inch wide hole in my belly, about three inches to the left of my belly button. On the inside of that hole is stitched the current end of my large intestine. I say "current" because my large intestine historically ended at my butt, aka, rectum (wrecked 'em? Damn near killed 'em). However, since November 6th, 2007, my butt has been closed, disabled, out of work. Just like me. Because the hole is the new terminus of my digestive system it is far too important to simply be called a hole and it obviously isn’t my anus (and it wouldn’t be Uranus either, nor Saturn, even if it did have rings so leave the stupid jokes to me okay?). It is properly called a “stoma”. I suppose it could have been called just about anything but the authorities have settled on stoma. It looks to me more like a miniature, toothless mouth with thick, beefy red lips than a typical anus. Perhaps the strangest thing about this stoma business is that it has no nerves. Therefore it has no tactility, no feeling at all. Now, from time to time, following no apparent schedule my feces just sort of appears from this new hole in my belly. My poop simply extrudes from the hole as if from some phantom Play Dough factory gone haywire. It’s always a surprise over which I have absolutely no control. As potentially annoying as an unannounced guest suddenly knocking on your door or ringing your doorbell, at any time, day or night, except this guest doesn’t even demonstrate the courtesy of a knock, he just lets himself in. See the doc didn't move my sphincter, that clever little ring of muscle that allows one to exhibit some degree of control over the passage of fecal matter and, in most cases gas (unless you happen to be my dog or Mike Mahers, a guy I spent 74 days with on a submarine, underwater, but I digress). No, the surgeon left that sphincter right were it has always lived. The bottom line (pun intended) is I have no control over my solid, semi-solid nor gaseous colonic outputs, which is why I have to wear the bag. When the bag starts getting full, I have to go through the delightful process of emptying it. The bag, as I mentioned, is actually pasted to my abdomen with an adhesive that is reasonably tenacious, for about three days. Experiences too repulsive and disturbing to be described here in this already repulsive letter have driven the potential failure of the adhesive joint between my skin and the bag to surface to be the foremost thought in my conscious mind. In fact this bag is an obsession. I know there are many people who lead “normal” lives after a colostomy, but these people are much more patient patients than I. This brings me back to the cell phone store.
Since the beginning of my intestinal troubles I have lost a lot of weight and I also have very limited physical endurance. On a good day I may be able to get to the doctor’s office and have enough strength afterward to walk into a store for an item or two. I am getting stronger but this is a slow process. Today was a very good day for me. I felt stronger than I had in months and my spirits were soaring. I was freshly showered. My bag was not only empty but it was a brand new, freshly applied bag. Since the colostomy, my most comfortable moments are those immediately after a shower and the application of a new bag. With all these factors in perfect alignment, I thought it was a good day to deal with this cell phone issue. Well it seemed like a good idea as I was pulling my little MINI Cooper out of the driveway with my faithful, if sometimes stinky dog Basil by my side.
High pressure sales techniques typically are more likely to drive me out of a store than to a sale. However, when all the phones available are astonishingly mystifying while equally disinteresting, I needed some pressure, a little prodding toward one model, any model. My requirements were simple: it must make phone calls, receive phone calls and fold, slide or otherwise have some way of covering the buttons so I may carry it in my pocket without making phone calls inadvertently. How hard could this process be? Apparently, for Alex, my salesman, it was a nearly insurmountable task. While trying to be thoroughly helpful, he ran me through every phone in the showroom. The prices ranged from free(after a mail-in rebate) to nearly $500 for a phone that was more powerful than the computer on which I am writing this story. This was the famous Apple iPhone. The display for this little electronic wonder was the centerpiece of the store. It had a tremendous flat screen television showing how the phone can tell me where to find a Starbucks coffee in San Francisco. I decided to pass on that marvelous device because I don’t drink Starbucks coffee. Now if the thing would tell me where to find Dunkin Donuts in Albuquerque, and if I had $500 I may have been rockin’ an iPhone. But Alex just droned on about the endless list of features I didn’t want and in spite of his meandering sales technique, I decided on a sleek, black, sexy wonder of design called LG CU515. I chose it because it is truly beautiful. It has large, easily read buttons and when it is closed it looks like a ladies bakelite compact from the 1920’s. Most importantly, it has no external antenna to break off and ultimately drive me to replace it any time in the foreseeable future. So the price (after mail-in rebate) was $50. But you know that’s not how much it cost me.
The phone comes with a charger but now one that works in your car. The car charger, pretty much a necessity for a mobile phone, is another $29.99. The little holster to carry the thing on your belt, another $29.99. The hands free thing (required by law to be used while driving) ranges in price. However, I have made up my mind I will never wear one of those things on my head. You’ve seen folks walking around with those little ear things on haven’t you? They call them “Bluetooth”. I call them silly-looking. I can’t imagine ever needing to be in constant contact so badly that I will wear something on my face in public that makes me look like an extra from Star Trek. I’ll risk the traffic ticket before I look like a Borg. Beside, the situation on my belly was becoming an embarrassing distraction.
An empty bag lies flat and is concealed nicely by a loose fitting shirt. Since the flat, empty bag is about twelve inches long and five inches wide, it extends below the waistband of my pants. However, since the bag is remains flat as long as it’s empty, and more importantly, the plastic clip that holds the opening at the bottom of the bag shut until it is time to empty the collected contents is rigid and bulky, the bag must be worn under the shirt but outside the pants, thereby precluding tucking in my shirt. Being winter in New England, this day was seasonably cold so, over my bag I wore a large t-shirt, a sweater and my big winter work coat. In the store I unzipped my coat but left it on. I felt quite comfortable, until my breakfast of hard-boiled eggs, oatmeal and a grapefruit hit the scene.
I thought I’d have been out of the store only minutes after selecting the phone. Incredibly, the moment I indicated my final decision to Alex coincided perfectly with his loss of control over the equipment required to activate my new phone and close this sale. He was behind a small counter on which lie his computer/ cash register, my driver’s license, my credit card, my new phone, the extra charger, belt holster, my old phone, the contract I had to sign and assorted other sales associated items. For some reason, the computer suddenly didn’t like Alex or me or my phone or something. The net result was that Alex continued apologizing that he didn’t know why “it wouldn’t take”. Meanwhile, my breakfast was working its way toward its inevitable destination. The minutes began to pass like hours.
I have heard it said, “timing is everything”. That is not precise truth. I mean timing can sometimes be the difference between life and death but it isn’t everything. Also that cliché is ambiguous as far as whether timing is good or bad. Ancient wisdom assures us that if there is something that is considered good, there exists an equal but opposite quantity that we would call bad. The balance, the yin and yang. Today, Alex’s computer troubles and my decision to eat a high-fiber breakfast combined to make for very bad timing, very, very bad timing indeed.
Remember the very end of my natural digestive tract is dormant but the remaining portion of my bowel remains in full effect. I just have no control over it. I hadn’t thought about that while I enjoyed a nice high fiber breakfast. But that fruit and eggs and oatmeal all did what they normally do. My gastro-intestinal system was suddenly running like a supercharged race car on a nice brisk day. About four seconds after Alex sighed his third apology, my stoma responded with a considerably melodious, but thanks to the bag, not malodorous fart. Because the sound emanated from my frontal midsection, Alex looked me in the eye and laughed a nervously sarcastic chuckle, apparently believing I had made the high pitched thrrppppp noise with my mouth, perhaps in protest to the delay in finishing the sale. Certainly I didn’t want to do anything to irritate this guy or do anything that would in any way retard this already painfully slow process. I simply said, “excuse me”.
“No, please excuse me. I don’t understand why the computer is taking the new phone’ Normally you’d be on your way home by now.” A tone of defensiveness began to creep into his otherwise phony cheerfulness.
Again timing reared its ugly head. The instant Alex turned his annoyed gaze from my eyes back to his computer monitor, from beneath my sweater spewed a perfectly pronounced, barely muffled string of fifteen to twenty onomatopoeic syllables that seemed to last long enough to have been the flip side of a Yoko Ono single, “Thruppp plop spurt gurgle squirt splat poop…” and on and on long enough that Alex was looking me in the eye again as the torturously embarrassing “song” continued playing from beneath my sweater as I felt the weight, and warmth of my crap collecting in the vinyl bag. As I forced myself to maintain eye contact with the now incredulous salesman, baring my best “poker face” in an attempt to show as little emotion as possible, I must have appeared stark, raving mad. I wanted to run out of the store when I noticed the gas causing the bag to inflate beneath my t-shift. I tried to close my coat but I was suddenly afraid I’d be accused of shoplifting. I had a passing thought how someone can use colostomy patients to smuggle drugs or other contraband secreted inside a bag full of crap but that thought passed as sure as the gas and the pound and a half of warm, runny diarrhea that was filling rapidly this pouch that was new, empty and flat only a few minutes earlier. Now the bulge was obvious under my sweater and because it was off center, it could not possibly be mistaken for the big round belly I had lost over the past few months of illness. Picture something roughly the size of a two-liter bottle of soda suddenly appearing under your sweater, in front but solidly to the left of center as you were have a conversation with a complete stranger.
Ah but running away was not an option. He had my old phone, my new phone and my driver’s license. All I could think of to do was tell the truth, “I’m sorry, please excuse me. I recently had a colostomy and I’m not very good at it.” With that I lifted the bottom of my sweater and t-shirt to show Alex the swelling bag. I don’t know if that was the smartest choice I could have made but it seemed like my only option. By his reaction I guessed Alex had no familiarity at all with such things. His mouth dropped open as he began aimlessly shuffling the things around on the counter, muttering barely audible but unintelligible “words” and he nervously looked back over his left shoulder at the other sales people at another counter toward the rear of the showroom.
Suddenly Alex stopped muttering and fidgeting and shouted, “I think you need a new sim card!” Then he ran away (literally ran) and disappeared behind the back wall of the showroom. It dawned on me that Alex may have been so confused by the bizarre, puffing pouch under my sweater that no conclusion he could possibly conceive would be too far to leap. His apparent panic and hasty retreat may have been Alex believing I was a terrorist and the odd looking thing beneath my clothing was not a bag filling with my shit but perhaps an explosive device which I might detonate at any moment. If someone had no knowledge of colostomies nor improvised explosive devices , hearing daily reports of suicide bombers in public places, he may have believed he was running for his life. I turned and looked out the front window half expecting a S.W.A.T. van to pull up.
Five or six minutes passed before he returned with two more telephones and two little microchips attached to what looked like credit cards. The man seemed completely re-composed and suddenly fully capable of completing the sale. I don’t know technically what he did or was planning to do but psychologically he had somehow managed to pull himself together and ignore my odd malady and the odder bit of equipment that was growing and gurgling beneath my clothing. One of his colleagues may have calmed him down and explained the presence of the strange thing under my sweater. So now Alex could once again function. Me? I was beginning to panic.
First of all, I hadn’t stood on my feet for this long since before my first surgery at the end of October, three months ago. I was getting pretty shaky. Second, the bag was more inflated with gas than I had ever experienced. If I could just get out of the store and into my car, I know how to release the gas without having to empty the poop. I have no idea how much pressure one of these colostomy bags can hold but I wasn’t interested in doing any pressure testing right there in the AT&T showroom. “Alex, please can we either hurry this along or cancel it because I have some issues that require my immediate attention?”
“We’re all set right now. All you have to do is sign right here” as he slid the contract across the counter, “And swipe your credit card.” Which I did and miraculously, I was outside with everything in order, except the the bag with about two pounds of crap and maybe 3 psi of gas looking for a way out. I moved as quickly to my car as my wobbly legs would take me.
Even though it was only 25 degrees F outside, I had parked in the sun so it was actually quite warm in the car. Basil of course had been sleeping in my seat. So I had to wake him and wait while he stood up, stretched, sighed and poured himself as slowly and smoothly as molasses into the front passenger seat. I was less graceful as I slid immediately behind the steering wheel and shut the door behind me. While Basil was trying to find any food that may have been in the AT&T bag with all my new AT&T stuff and my old Cingular phone, I turned my attention to the other bag, my firmly inflated colostomy bag. The new item at the top of my “to do” list was to release the pressure in a controlled manner before it vented itself in some sort of uncontrolled manner. My mind’s eye saw a terrifying burst of the bag and the thick oozing contents covering entirely the interior of my little car including every square inch of glass, sort of like a scene from a Quentin Tarantino flick, except today’s brown would be yesterday’s red. So I tackled the task at hand by lifting my sweater and t-shirt high enough to expose the entire beige, plastic pouch. I then raised the narrow, two inch wide bottom of the bag (called the “tail” in the parlance of the colostomy world) and gently shook the contents of the now inverted bag toward the top, away from the opening. Then, with great care I released the plastic clamp, unfolded the tail and gently pressed downward, much like a controlled release of the air from a toy balloon. I did this with no problem and the pressure was safely released. But I immediately realized the key to the car was in my pocket and my power widows were both all the way up. Both hands were now occupied with the bag which had just released a large blast of the most amazingly awful smelling gas on this side of lethal, not only into the sealed interior of a small sports car, but pretty much directly into my own face. It was like a breeze from Hell. I’m not sure if I lost consciousness but I was certainly incoherent as I wretched and shook barely able to maintain my control of the still open sack in my hands. Conversely, Basil’s curiosity was immediately piqued by this new smell in the car. His attention instantly shifted from the AT&T bag to the bag of liquid nausea in my hands. As I fought back the fog of unconsciousness and held down the contents of my heaving stomach I managed to replace the clip, sealing the bag so I could use my left hand to open the door and gasp for fresh air, beautiful, cold, crisp, fresh , January air. It was like being reborn and given another chance to live. Meanwhile, Basil appeared disappointed that I terminated his investigation before he had made any conclusions. Have you ever noticed that dogs don’t appear to judge smells. There are no “bad” smells in the olfactory realm of the canine. There are just smells. Some smells are food. Some smells are friends. Some smells are other dog’s urine or crap. Some smells are important and some are not but I have yet to see a dog wretch of even be repulsed by a smell that would have me and most other people puking at first whiff. Hey, dogs are great pets and truly the best friend you could ask for but they are also disgusting, filthy critters.
Once my head cleared, Basil and I were on our way home. I laughed as I thought of Alex’s decision to run for his life from my bag of feces. Then it hit me, not all at once but like a waterfall. The first idea washed over my mind when I realized the potential value of what happened in the AT&T store. I don’t mean the purchase of a new cell phone, nor the entertaining ignorance of the salesman. Suddenly as I thought of it the ideas continued in a steady, gushing torrent pouring through my brain. There is a potential fortune to be made, and I’ll share with you my ideas. Not because my ideas aren’t proprietary. Oh they are, my ideas must be kept under very tight wraps. I will share my ideas with you because I trust you and this thing is going to grow so rapidly that I will need help. Someone like you trustworthy, hardworking will make a very good partner. So, skipping the formalities of written contracts and all that time consuming paperwork, let’s just forge ahead with our agreement, our mutual promise right here and now, we will keep this just between us. Okay, so if you agree and I have your promise, read on and I will now disclose my ideas. From one, simple incident, hardly noticeable by most, completely indiscernible by others a fortune will be made.. The incident? I completed a business transaction and a bowel movement simultaneously. This is a new pinnacle of efficiency and it is made possible by the colostomy.
Here are some of my thoughts on the sales and marketing of the totally elective colostomy. For busy people anywhere, in any field we all need to save time wherever, whenever we can. Well with a simple, elective surgery performed by our own highly trained, highly motivated surgeons, we will bring new meaning to the phrase, “multi-tasking”. The busy executive, the rushing soccer mom, the hard working graduate student, the campaigning politician, even the hustling street thug all share one thing in common. They all have to stop everything they are doing when “nature calls”. Someone once said, “when ya gotta go, ya gotta go”. No truer words have ever been uttered. Since we first learned to go outside the cave, a bowel movement required one to not only drop his or her drawers but they have had to drop everything else as well. Not any more. If you have a colostomy strictly for convenience and efficiency, all you have do is be sure you have room in your bag for whatever may come along. Because there is no medical reason for having one of our colostomies, we don’t want to call the recipients “patients”. We will adopt the new term, “colostomers”. I have also roughed out a television commercial.
The opening shot is a major city rush hour scene. A man in a large European sedan glancing nervously at his watch as he is obviously stuck in traffic. This fades to a young, attractive mother juggling her infant and a toddler as she is trying to load groceries into her gigantic SUV. Fade to a man in a blue, pinstriped suit sitting at the head of a typical, corporate conference table while the camera angle shows clearly all seats at the table occupied and an important meeting in progress. The announcer’s voice , steady and serious, says, “In this hectic world, do you find you are late before your day has even begun? Is your alarm clock set to wake you up before you even go to bed? Who even has time for a bowel movement anymore?”
The camera zooms in to the face of the man at the head of the conference table as he states authoritatively, “I just crapped in a very important meeting.”
Next shot is a prosecuting attorney handing a file to the judge in a large walnut paneled courtroom. The attorney turns toward the camera and declares, “Today I crapped in court”.
Then we are in the front of a Roman Catholic Church as Communion is being held. A pretty blond in the very foreground, kneeling at the rail is awaiting the priest who is working his way toward her. As he holds the small wafer in his fingers, the priest is heard to say, “Body of Christ”.
The woman turns away from the priest to the camera and says cheerfully, “I’m crappin’ right now” then she turns back to the priest and accepts her host.
The announcer comes back to say, “Become a colostomer. It’s about time.”
So, let me know what you think and remember, this is just between us.
