So it's been a week since I told you the story about my hemmies.
And I had no idea at the time that so many people would e-mail me and say something to the effect of, "I HAVE to hear the story about pooping in Walgreen's." Seriously, people? As if I haven't already embarrassed myself enough?
Well, if you insist.
You will recall that when I left the surgeon's office last week, I was on my way to pick up my Lortab. They called the prescription in from their office and I headed straight to the Walgreen's close to our house to pick it up.
When I pulled up in the drive-through and gave my name, the pharmacist said, "Um, yeah, that's not ready yet. It's gonna be about 30 minutes." And I was not pleased. I asked, "It's not ready yet? How long did you say it would be?" And he said, "Well, they JUST called it in, so it's gonna be about 30 minutes. We're really slammed."
I considered going on home and coming back to pick it up later, but I really couldn't stand the thought of having to come back, especially if the pain hit before I could make it back to the store. Plus, I was supposed to go home and lie down for 24 hours, not drive around in my car.
Then I remembered that I had Nicholas' teacher's list of the additional few items we needed to supply for the first day of school in my work bag, so I decided to park, go in and buy those supplies since I had to wait anyway. (Not a minute goes to waste around here! Use the time wisely, I thought!)
Once I got inside, it was pretty quick work finding the six or seven items on the list, all except latex-free Band-Aids, but I finally found those, too.
It had only been about 15 minutes since I'd spoken to the pharmacist in the drive-through, but I thought if I went back to the pharmacy and stood there in all my 8-months-pregnant glory, holding a blue handbasket full of stuff, they might be inclined to fill my order more quickly. So to the back of the store I went.
I'd only been standing there for about a minute when I felt something weird on the inside of my thigh. And about the time I thought, "What the HECK?" ... I smelled it. OH, INTERNET. I knew immediately what had transpired.
I leaned around the three women in front of me to get the pharmacist's attention:
Me: "Excuse me, is there a restroom I can use?"
Young Male Pharmacist: "Uhhh ..."
Me: "IT'S AN EMERGENCY."
Young Male Pharmacist: "Yeah. It's around the corner on the back wall. Through that door."
I dropped that blue handbasket like it was full of explosives, sliding it over to the side wall, and I took off like a shot for the restroom. I could tell that the poop had dislodged the gauze that had been placed between my cheeks, and I was just praying that I didn't shake a now-bloody, poopy pile of gauze down my pants leg and into the multi-vitamin aisle as I ran.
I slammed into the restroom, where luckily I was the only occupant. I dove into the handicapped stall (I don't know that I've ever felt more handicapped IN ALL MY LIFE) and tore my pants down. OH, INTERNET. The carnage, it was epic.
Straight away, I had to take off my shoes, pants and undies. The undies were unsalvageable; I rolled them up, wrapped them in toilet paper and threw them in the sanitary napkin bin. (SURPRISE LATER, Janitor!) (SORRY!)
It took a while to clean myself up (and I'll spare you the details ... yes, you're so welcome), and then I stood there worrying over what to do with my pants. Ultimately, I knew I had to wash them out in the sink. I was willing to leave the store without underwear, but I knew going pantsless wasn't an option.
So there I stood, PRAYING TO MY LORD AND SAVIOR that no one else would come into the restroom, washing my pants out in the sink. I was wearing a maternity shirt that covered my belly, but it wasn't designed so much to cover parts below that. So I had my rear end sticking out, naked as the day I was born. Handwashing my stinky pants in the sink.
Have I ever felt so humbled? I THINK NOT.
After I got them as clean as possible, I blew them dry with the hand dryer, then redressed. I calmly walked out and retrieved my little blue handbasket, then went to the sanitary napkin aisle to grab a box. One quick trip back to the restroom told me that without any panties to grab onto, a maxipad was useless to me. Back out into the public realm I went.
I waddled on back to the pharmacy, where I just hoped and prayed no one's nose would wiggle like Samantha Stevens' and ask, "What's that smell?" God was on my side. No one said anything.
And before you ask, "Why in heaven's name didn't you just get in the car and GO HOME?" ... there were two reasons. One, I REALLY felt like I was going to need that medicine within about 20 minutes. And two, I was terrified to leave my current close proximity to a working restroom just yet. Read: I DID NOT WANT TO POOP MYSELF IN THE CAR.
So I stood in that line and I paid for that Lortab (and Clorox wipes and Kleenex and latex-free Band-Aids, et al), and when I finally felt comfortable enough to get in the car, I drove home. And laid on my side for about 24 solid hours.
And then I sat up and dashed off an e-mail to my surgeon's nurse about adding a little note to their post-op instructions. And then told myself that I was NEVER, EVER going to share this story with the Internet.
