I think about poop. Poop is something I notice, measure, and am consistently in tune with. No, I don’t talk about it a lot. I mean, I don’t talk about it with just anyone. With my sisters, poop is a common conversational topic. We tell all types of stories of pooping, not pooping, embarrassing pooping—whatever has happened (or not happened) on any given day. I think this is fairly common in small circles. I can vouch for my boyfriend and his friends in a camping scenario: poop gets discussed and described, no matter who (ahem) is around.
A few weeks ago, I had a problem. I couldn’t go. A day went by, then a weekend. I chalked it up to too much food and wine, not enough water and exercise. So I started drinking two liters a day and exercising more than normal. Still nothing. I had had a few problems in the past and was told to take a daily fiber supplement. I was still taking it. I upped the dosage, nothing dangerous, still within guidelines, but more than I typically needed. Still nothing. It started freaking me out. I knew what I was consuming. I knew what I was not expelling. And, as my older sister would say “the input did not match the output.”
I also noticed a little itch, a little pain, a little blood on the TP. When enough time passed, I had a hard time keeping it in. (Well, emotionally at least.) I brought it up to my boyfriend, who I live with. He suggested I call his internist. I happened to be working from home that day, so I did. I also had been having some eye allergies. The phone call went a bit like this:
Receptionist: “Hi, so can you describe the problems you’re having?”
Me: “Well, I’m having some eye allergies and my eyes are red and irritable, and (long pause), I’m also having some digestive issues, um, constipation.”
Receptionist: “Right, well the doctor is unavailable but a nurse practitioner can see you instead.” Perfect.
