The real world...

I have tried to be genteel here, in my online rememberer, for the twelve and a half years I have been writing.  However, there really are no genteel words for some of the parts of my life now.  Definitely none for yesterday.

I pooped in my pants.

Incontinence is something that I have been facing on a very small scale for a while now.  Control is something that I know I would have to eventually face.  And, for the most part, I have been able to take this particular change in my life with a grain of salt.  Of course, living by myself, there is no one here to see me running to the bathroom ... running or waddling whilst trying to keep my legs pressed together.  But yesterday was different.

I pooped in my pants.

That alone was enough to leave me in tears the day long.  But to rub salt in my wound, after spending a large amount of time and effort trying to clean myself up, I somehow managed, in my fatigue, to put back on my poopy underwear, rather than the clean pair I had brought to the bathroom.

Truly, there are no word for how I felt at the moment I realized what I had done.

I cried and cried and cried.  And I texted the two people I felt I could tell.  Each answered with mercy.  And that, really, is why I am writing.  I hope to remember their replies.

Becky has learned well how much I need to hear that how I feel is okay.  She has become rather skilled at saying "it's okay" in many and varied ways.  Yesterday, she acknowledged the heart of the burden of what happened.  Or at least one part of that burden:  how hard it is for me to face change.

My body is changing.
My life is changing.
I feel as if I am changing.

Celia's mercy addressed the latter more specifically:  Your personhood is not dictated by your abilities.  It is not fun, not fair, but the PERSON you are is still beautiful even as your body fails you.  WE live in a fallen world and it treats us accordingly.  But you are forgiven.  From a secular perspective, you are still my amazing friend Myrtle no matter which underwear you wear.  Even if they are blue with orange polka dots that totally clash or a bad shade of GREEN.

Yes, I am the daughter of an interior designer.  My underwear matches my clothing choices.  Even men's hoodies and lounge pants.  Celia made me laugh and both of my friends helped me to get through the awfulness of yesterday.

I shudder at the thought of the day coming where I will no longer be able to wear underwear.  The thought of wearing adult diapers horrifies me.  So indignant.  So shameful.  Critical thoughts from attitudes that are not filled with mercy and grace.

I am not there yet.  I know that and take comfort in it.  But I do have to be more careful than I already am.  And I know that yesterday was not the last time I am going to poop in my pants.

I wrote my friends that I do not want to be the person I'm becoming.  I do not know how to see myself apart from the condition of my body and my mind.  It is there that I need the greatest mercy and grace.

The anxiety and the rather unexpected squeamishness are most particularly difficult to bear.  I cannot bear to see dead animals. I cannot read or watch real world cruelty.  Mess and chaos distresses me.  And bit of food in the sink causes me to first think of vomit and then battle to keep my own vomit from spewing into the sink.  There are a gazillion instances of how small things set off the anxiety and the oddest things set off the squeamishness.

Yes, that means I cannot bear the thought of putting my underwear into the washing machine until it has been cleaned.  Yet I cannot figure out how I could actually clean it myself.  How, odd, that, really, since I grew up in a world where babysitting meant that you dealt with lots and lots and lots of poopy cloth diapers.  I used to be rather efficient in dealing with them.  Now, I mostly want to throw out my underwear.  But that isn't really a solution for me.

Today has been rough, with that balled up mess tucked in the corner of the bathroom.  It has been rough because my heart rate and blood pressure have been particularly low, as if I have not had a dose of theophylline in weeks. It has been rough because any change in posture, thus, has sent my heart racing and my blood pressure skyrocketing.  It has been rough because my puppy dog is fighting his own battle with poop.

I realized just a short while ago that the reason he is refusing to walk on the bare ground along side the garage is because the snow is no longer covering the pile of poop right there where the sidewalk meets the day lily bed.  His pathway to where he has been tending his major business is blocked.

The contracted snowbank has crusted over a bit, between the rainfall and still freezing temperatures at night.  Amos has learned that if he walks very, very, very carefully, with his paws splayed wide, he can venture out on to the snowbank to tend his business.

His puppy momma needs to gird her loins and clean up the ground at the corner of the garage.  She also needs to clean up the corner of her bathroom.  The truth is ... there's no one else.  She has to take care of that which she would rather avoid because there's no one else to do so.

I am thankful for a puppy dog who wipes the tears from my eyes.
And friends who speak mercy.
Even when I poop in my pants.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!