A Shi**y Way to Start the Day

Wednesday was chemo-day and I spent the rest of the day knocked out, trying to recover.  Yesterday, I can't remember (which should probably be a sign) but I think I was knocked out all day as well.

...And then there's this morning.  Mortifying is an appropriate adjective.

I feeling pretty good so when I woke up, I decided to update my calendar.  There I was, standing in front of my dry-erase calendar that I chart my life on: updating it with upcoming events such as birthdays, people I want to pray for, and Chavel's wedding.  As I was starting to erase some past events, I must have used a little too much uumph or something, because I had an accident.

Yes, an accident.  As in, I pooped myself.

Even more unfortunately, I had a pair of my husband's boxers on, which are fantastically comfortable for sleeping in, but don't catch things quite the same as feminine undergarments.  A spot of heat hit my left inner ankle and I glanced down to see a brown-ish dot starting to sag downward toward the floor.  Realizing that what I thought happened actually HAD, I immediately ran to the bathroom to check the damage and debate whether to wash or toss.  The boxers were actually pretty well protected from the damage, but I couldn't imagine Isaac ever wanting to wear them again.  I debated a couple more seconds.  To the garbage they went.

After cleaning myself up, I armed myself with a soapy wet paper towel and made my way to the scene of the crime, intending to nonchalantly clean the spot unnoticed and uninterrupted.

Wouldn't you know, that's not how it went.

"Ash, what are you doing?" asked Mom.

"Oh, just cleaning up a little spot."

"What happened?" she probed.  I sighed.


Can't it just be between me and the carpet....?


Chin tilted at an angle downward, I squared my jaw before looking at her and answering.  "I pooped myself, okay?"  I'm sure I was shooting daggers at her.

"Oh honey..." I could hear the laughter being held back in her voice as she switched into mother mode.  "Where did you put them?"

Embarrassed, I nodded toward the bathroom.  "In the garbage."  Things were awkward enough as it was and I couldn't imagine my MOTHER digging in our garbage for my husband's now-soiled boxers, so I dove in after them myself.  I felt kind of like a dog unearthing it's buried treasure as I pulled them from the garbage.  Doesn't this normally happen after people hit 60-something?

"How bad are they?" she asked.  I unrolled and unfurled them for her to see.  She examined them with a practiced eye.  "Don't worry, I'll get a load of laundry started."

"What??  Don't we need to wash them by themselves?  Won't they get poop all over everything else?" I asked.

"No, no, no.  Just relax, don't worry about it.  I've got it.  Go take a nap or something."

I did.


And not only did she do the poopy laundry, she did ALL of our laundry.  I guess that makes it easier, because now Isaac will never know exactly which pair it was.  And really, if a person can't tell, can it even matter?