Disclaimer: this post has toilet talk, and I am not going to apologize.
Maybe it was the Twizzlers. Maybe I contracted some weird virus while reading Bart Yasso’s book last night (he travels in it you know). Maybe my personal version of colitis is cyclical. Maybe it’s a reaction to stress. Maybe. Maybe, Maybe.
I slept very poorly last night. I am not even confident that I was actually sleeping for any more than about 3 hours. My stomach didn’t really hurt, I just felt queezy. I blamed the Twizzlers, and the dogs, who were up and down and up and… (yah, we’re like that, the dogs sleep on the bed).
I got up this morning and headed out to run. It was uneventful until mile 4. Then I felt like someone kicked me in the gut. Just like that, no ramp up, just the punch. I had 2 miles to go before I would be back home, but I had to “go”. Immediately. I seriously considered squatting in a bush, but even at 6am that is totally unacceptable when you live in a major city. It made me really, really miss New Hampshire, where it’s actually acceptable under several sets of circumstances to shit in the woods (which just happens to be right next to the road).
I shortened my stride and picked up the pace, this effectively reduced impact and subsequent bouncing, but after another mile I was just in pain. I kept stopping and taking deep breaths and trying to make it look like I was stretching but really I was, you know, holding it, trying to get the courage to continue trudging home.
About a quarter-mile from home there is a grocery store. Now I wasn’t so much running anymore as I was sprinting, then sitting on bus stop benches, front stoops, and curbs. And repeat. I headed toward the grocery store to use their bathroom. But I had a lucid memory:
A little over two years ago when I was really sick but doctors were telling me that it was IBS, anxiety, and that I was depressed and not to worry about it (always be your own advocate!!!), I was shopping at the aforementioned grocery store when my stomach cramped up and I had to run to the bathroom. I was in there a while, so long in fact, that I had to flush I think 4 times. The last one didn’t work. I was embarrassed, and shaky, but left the bathroom to go inform customer service that I had indeed clogged up their toilet. I was only about 20 feet away when a woman came tearing out of the bathroom after me and yelled (I am not kidding, she was LOUD) “hey, go back and flush the toilet”. I stopped dead in my tracks, I was so humiliated I couldn’t even blink, let alone think of a response. I turned and ran out the entrance doors. I ran all the way home (which was further at the time), and sobbed until my boyfriend got home about two hours later and said lots of horrible things about that random woman and lots of nice things about me. Which usually helps.
So, I turned, and made it home. I started to gag (strangely, I often get nauseous when symptomatic) whilst trying to get the front door unlocked. I made it to the bathroom, but was nearly 30 minutes late for my car-pool. The rest of my day didn’t go much better, and I again skipped my evening session (I might not do any weight lifting this week.) What I keep thinking about is that if this began at mile 3, I would have been right next to a public restroom. Figures.
I checked my email, waiting for my coffee to brew, and there was one from my Mom. All is said was “listen to your body”.
That email was sent at 6:27 am, right about when I felt that kick to my colon.
I love my momma. I hate colitis.