An Expose on Poop

Life has been weird this year. I lack a better word. A breakup. “Temporarily” moving back home with my parents. For some, it is a normal part of life. I left out the part where I was 57 when it happened. Now 58, I’m still here. That wasn’t the plan. It was only going to be temporary. Then my mom asked me to stay until my dad passed away.

My dad, my hero. The man I adore for his resolve, his determination, his giant presence. My dad has end-stage kidney failure. It’s been end-stage for six years. Six years of dialysis have kept him alive, along with the pacemaker that’s been keeping his heart ticking for twenty years. Two bouts of melanoma. Korea and Vietnam. Heck, he even survived raising my brother and me.

So being in a house with him every day is difficult, even when everything else feels like it did when I wasn’t here. Now, I see his daily struggles. I have said goodbye to him on more than one occasion. But damn that stubborn resolve. At 93, he worries he hasn’t done enough in his life. His life is not happy. He can’t hear. He can barely walk. He gets constipated. And there are days when he acts like a two-year-old. He is mostly kind though.

My mom, on the other hand, is Wonder Woman. Her patience is remarkable.

As for me, I take the days with them as mostly gifts. I have become more patient, softer, more compassionate. It grosses me out when he hacks up who knows what, or there’s snot he didn’t quite get or dripping from his nose. I have learned to simply hand him a tissue for that. Sometimes I leave the room and gag.

Today, though, he held me hostage. My mom had gone out, grateful for some time to herself. I checked on him after walking my dog, asked if he was okay. When he enthusiastically popped up from the bed to share a story, I knew I was in trouble. He was so excited, giddy really. I haven’t seen him be that elated in months.

The source of his joy? He took a poop.

It was not just any poop. It was solid. One that was long, but “broke in half when it hit.” I knew he was dying to show it to me as it sat in the portable toilet next to the bed, lid on, thankfully, with a note for my mom that it was full. (I will not, cannot, do that. And I own that.) He used both hands to give me a visual representation of its size. The smile never left his face.

When I would grimace and motion to walk away, he’d say he wasn’t done. He then told me how he knew his system was working again because, “When I was lying down, I let out the biggest fart I have ever had in my whole life. It was wonderful.”

Little kids get excited about poops. I raised three. I would clap, cheer, and encourage in those moments. I’d listen as they relayed stories of their potty successes. It’s so much cuter when a small child with a limited vocabulary is trying to explain things. When a 93-year-old toddler tries, it is not so cute. But I listened. And I said, “Yay, Dad,” when he finished sharing and said I may be excused. Cradle to grave. Could there be a truer testament to the cycle of life?

Had I not moved back home, I would not have witnessed the true love between my parents, their absolute adoration for each other, my mom’s unwavering support of him. She jokes about how much I have to look forward to. I tell her she’s not convincing me.

But, truthfully, I don’t want to be that old. I don’t want someone to wipe my ass or to clean out the shit from the toilet by my side of the bed. I don’t want to ask my children to go to the pharmacy for suppositories and to engage in conversation with eager pharmacists on the best products to help constipation. And most of all, I never ever want to discuss the size and scope of my bowel movements. It stinks.

This is not the part of my parents I will remember. I am learning to compartmentalize my memories. I am grateful to them for a lifetime of love. But the dad I will remember isn’t here anymore. Pieces of him are. He still makes me laugh, tells me he’s proud of me, tells me he loves me, tells me I’m a “knockout” when I wear something nice. His hearing is gone, but his love is not.

When I reflect after he’s gone, when I know my mom is okay, and I am finally wherever it is I’m supposed to be, I’ll remember this time as a gift. I know his stories will always be with me. I will likely share some of the harder ones with a touch of humor because he deserves to be remembered for all the different parts of his life that made his story. Even the shitty ones.

https://medium.com/human-parts/cradle-to-grave-living-with-my-aging-parents-at-58-49a296520f31