"Like S**t Through a Goose...or 'I have to go potty'.

Do not read this post if you are easily grossed out.  Because if you are, this might stick in your head for awhile.

So, I never really thought much about 'poop' before.  I mean, everyone does it, but how many of us consciously worry about pooping?

And then I started taking care of my mother.  Part of her dementia includes having to sit on the commode 57 times in an hour.  She doesn't actually have to go, but her brain tells her she does.  This can be particularly embarrassing in when standing in the grocery line.  You see, telling her that she actually doesn't have to go, doesn't pacify her.  She simply repeats 'I have to go potty' at increasing increments and louder volumes every 15 seconds.

On the brights side, some sweet soul will almost always let me move up to the front of the line.

Because we can't fit the wheelchair into the bathroom, I've set up a commode in the living room.  (No, not the dining room.  We do try to keep the fecal-oral pathway to a minimum.)  Now I can only lift my mother about 7 times a day.  That's about all my arms can take.  This is at odds with her 432 requests to get on it every day.  The worst part is once I get her on it, she doesn't actually have to go.  So after 15 seconds, she wants back in her wheelchair.  And once she's in her wheelchair, it's about another 45 seconds till she's yelling that she has to go potty again.

But the problem was, as many times as she sat on the 'pot' she wasn't poopin'.  Which, if you've ever been constipated, you understand.

Now her constant  litany increased to two statements.  'I have to go potty' and 'I have a tummy ache'.  Well, yes Mom.  I bet you do.  It'd rather be like having rocks rolling around in your gut.

Part of the problem is that she no longer can do an 'abdominal press'.  Yes, those are some of the muscles that your body uses to expel waste.  She also doesn't get exercise and her diet is made of soft foods.  Although I've tried to include some fiber heavy power hitters, like oatmeal and blenderized fresh fruit, it just wasn't doing the trick.

After 7 days I took her to the Doctor.  He gave her laxatives.  I gave her Senna tea.  I gave her prunes.  I gave her figs.

And still nothing.

Finally, last weekend, when I lifted her off the commode, I could see 'it'.  A massive piece of stool, blocking the way.

And I knew what I had to do.

I donned rubber gloves, swabbed liberally with baby oil and proceeded to dig 'it' out,  one tiny fragment at a time.

Oddly she didn't complain.  I would have been screaming my head off had it been me.

But gradually, chipping away, bit by bit, the big hard mass came out.

Of course, it was followed by a deluge of, well, you know what.

I will never again question the old saw 'like s#*t through a goose'.

So, that's it.  I'm hoping the problem is solved.  She seems more comfortable, even though she still yells 'I have to go potty' every 5 minutes.

I feel better about making her more comfortable.

I don't know why I'm sharing this.  I know not everyone takes care of their mother in her final times.  But if you do decide to, know that's not a bed of roses.  And you will undoubtedly do some things that you never, ever imagined yourself doing.