Sadly, A Repost: I. Need. A. Laxative.

I wish I had something more fascinating with which to entertain the remains of ERP's visitors, stopping by to gape at a Challenging Patient, but life is what it is, and today, that means a repost about constipation and sappy commentary about a cat-friend. I must say I was surprised when, checking back on his comment thread, I discovered myself to be a drug-seeker and a kook. Y'all be sure to shut the drawbridge -- and try not to fall in the moat on your way out.


I don't imagine there are many people out there who will be able to understand my frustration. That's why I like to call it My Frustration.

When I ask other people to help me, I relinquish most of my control over the way in which I want to be helped. In addition to lowering my exhaustive and incomparable standards, I give up control in ways never considered before the onset of Life as a Gimp.

Privacy. I have none! Influence? Fading, a mere effervescence.

I need a laxative. I mean, I have a laxative, but it isn't working. The situation is kind of dire. My mobility has been non-existent these past few weeks, and my narcotic doses are destined to be the stuff of legends. The only things I have going for me in the Poo Department are my Stellar Eating Habits (just ignore all the Diet Cola and popcorn). I mean, if an apple a day keeps the doctor away, then I cover the bases by eating two.

Still, hoping against hope that I can ask for what I want, get what I want, and all that, in a timely fashion, I presented myself to Fred, with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.

"Sweetie, I hate to interrupt you, but I need you to do something for me."

Fred heaved a sigh full of put-upon soul. I'm not exactly sure what he was doing, just that it had something to do with capacitors, as he had before him the famous Leyden Jar. One of them. It's a small obsession. (Some people make origami peace doves.)

When I want to get The Fredster a little something... special? I order one of those mysterious little plain brown paper package numbers -- you know, the ones full of "600 Capacitors: 20 each of 30 values."

Ceramic capacitors. Axial-Leaded Solid Tantalum Capacitors. Silver Micas. Yer Aluminum Electrolytic. Boy toys.

He was wearing his headlamp thingy, redundant multimeters spread round him in a semicircle, a god in his created world.

"Yeah? What do you need?" He asked, pleasantly.

"I need a laxative. I want to try that Miralax stuff that Dr. Go-To-Guy from MDVIP recommended a few weeks back. I don't care what it costs."

"But, Retired Educator, my love, you have a laxative. I just got you a bottle of 100 Senna Laxative, Sennosides 8.6 milligram tablets, comparable to Senokot, the Natural Vegetable Laxative, when was it... yeah, yeah... it was 12 days ago. The price? Hmm. An amazing $5.50! That was a great buy."

"Fred? Please, I really need your help. It will take you, what? 15 minutes, max?"


"That stuff can take a while to work, you know. Maybe you just need to give it a little more time? Have you had any bran cereal?"

"Darling," said I, enunciating with care, "I have had 24 Senokot over the last 3 days, tripled the amount of stool softener I take, and had 4 enemas. I have had bran cereal and prunes, apple after everlovin' apple, plus at least 96 ounces of water every day."

"Wow, that's impressive!"

"Thank you. Will you go to the store, please? Soon? I'm pretty miserable."

"Sure, no problem. I just need to finish this up, take a quick shower, then I'll get right on it. I should be back by one... We can watch that bad vampire movie, if you want. Have a cozy, lazy day?" Yes, Fred is manly enough that he can pull off "cozy." About once a week, he even comes out in support of "whimsy."

"Okay, thanks, Fred." I turned the wheelchair and started to speed back to the cozy confines of our bed, which is the only place my bloated, whimsical self wanted to be.

"Hey! Have you tried hot water? Some people drink hot water... With lemon."

The preceding conversation, so faithfully transcribed, took place around noon.

As mentioned a few posts ago, Fred was diagnosed with ADHD in 2001.

I just thought I would throw that into the present narrative for your consideration. Also, because it is now after 4 pm. I watched the movie: it was, indeed, about vampires, and was pretty bad -- the kind of bad movie that it is fun to watch with someone else. There is now a fresh bad movie on, but it is not nearly as good as the first one.

Fred seems to have knocked out a few more Jars of Leyden. He also appears to be entering with great glee into one of the Twitter fads: HengeClub. Yes, little groupings of capacitors on circuit boards, an Ode to Power, I suppose. HengeClub naturally appeals to him, as Fred is a druid, a neo-druid. In the same vein, he also makes Alternative Crèches -- the Nativity Under Water, Winnie the Pooh does Baby Jesus, and so on.

Yes, a neo-druid of the Reformed Druids of North America, or RDNA, with ADHD -- and unfortunately very fazed by the vastness of nature.

For what it is worth, DiscoJimbo has submitted our favorite Henge, called StonedHenge:

I was on the cusp of that sarcasm born of misanthropy when Fred stuck his head in to say: "I'm so sorry. I got distracted. I'm going now -- be right back."

And just like that, he was gone.

Guilt and gratitude, together, are quite potent. I am familiar with "I'll be right back," when used in conjunction with the grocery store in question, and expected his return in roughly 45 minutes, longer if he stopped to check new used book arrivals at the neighboring thrift shop.

Time enough to whip up a "vegetable plate" dinner, our bi-weekly tribute to diner food and something that my colon also appreciates. Scoping out the offerings of the veggie drawer, it looked to be a meal born of carrots, cabbage, and brocolli. I tossed the rotten cuke, and put on some brown rice, wasabi peanuts,and onions.

Enough roughage to blow out Fort Knox.

So I end up with a lovely carrot and lentil soup, nicely warmed with fresh ginger, and finished with just a scosh of coconut milk, served with a raw brocolli and cabbage slaw, and the rice. I don't much like brown rice but in hopes of restoring the gut? I am ready to do anything. More importantly, The Fredster loves it.

Round things out with some nice flatbread and hummus, and poof! A lovely meal. And as if on cue, I hear the drawbridge descending, and the dulcet tones of Ruby, the Honda CR-V, happy to be home.

Surely, given this meal and the soon to be had Miralax, surely, surely, my agony will end soon.

His arms full of groceries, an unexpected boon, Fred comes storming into the Medieval Kitchen common area -- that we have basically turned into a Breakfast Nook, with the help of judicious wallpaper, featuring mad trellises, peppered with lemons, of all things.

Fred frequently returns in a huff from shopping, as he seems to be an Idiot Magnet, encountering people whom he subsequently names numbered "twats," as in "Twat Number One," "Twat Number Two," and so on. (Gender, oddly enough, is irrelevant.)

I have protested the use of the word, but frankly? It doesn't bother me all that much. I guess I apologize to you, on his behalf, should it offend... but honestly, I don't think he even reflects on its meaning.

I ask, "What happened?" and turn to stir the soup, my heart sinking, my gut déçu.

"Well, I talked to that Twat of a Pharmacist over there, asking him what would be the best laxative for someone like you...

"For someone like me? How exactly does that work again? I keep forgetting..."

"You know what I mean -- you're in a chair, you take narcotics, there's a compelling history of small bowel obstructions..."

"What about the Miralax, did you get the Miralax?"

"Well, no. That Twat of a Pharmacist gave me this stuff, which he swears will work and be easier on you. It costs about a third as much -- plus you get a heck of a lot more. 50 for $3.39! I can always go back and get the MiraLax later, okay? It's ten bucks for just ten doses."

It chaps my ass. If I could just go to the store myself, by myself, on behalf of myself. I feel about three years old, I feel frustrated, manipulated. But more than anything, I feel constipated, and in a serious way that looks never, ever to be relieved.

With amazing calm, resigned now to a fate of death by constipation, I ask my sweet Fred what purgative the pharmacist has sent, my voice suddenly gone all sing-songy.

I don't even inquire anymore why purchasing the items I request is always such a freaking impossibility.

Fun times at Marlinspike Hall, deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé!

I think I'll put out some candles, use the tureen Aunt Nancy gave me, and some of the Haddock Family's finest china.

After we eat, there will be time enough to put up the bottles of white balsamic vinegar ("On sale! I got all they had!") -- the sesame oil, the teff flour, carefully measured.