Before cancer, the last time I missed the toilet was 7th grade. The entire bus ride to school I had extremely painful cramps. When we arrived I had no choice but to shit. Back then I hated going in public restrooms, so I squatted above the seat and exploded. When I was done I still felt poorly, so I called my mom to come pick me up.
For some reason, something really stunk in the car. At home I noticed why—I erupted all over the back of my brand new white Adidas shirt. My mom tried to make me feel like less of a loser by saying she’d wash it for me. Too bad the shit stains never came out. The shirt was just too white.
That afternoon my mom had to pick up my older brother and his friend, NoCommonSense. I went with her. “What are you doing here?” my brother asked me.
“Benjamin wasn’t feeling well today,” my mom replied.
“…He pooped all over his shirt.”
NoCommonSense and my brother started laughing uncontrollably. If only that damn shirt wasn’t so white.
Fortunately, I’m not the only person that shits himself. A while back my friend called me: “I was in the bar and I really had to take a shit, so I left and started running home. I had to climb this fence in order to get there, and when I got one leg over I felt some shit fall down my leg.”
Chemotherapy either causes extreme constipation or extreme diarrhea. Nothing in the middle, and you don’t get to choose which one. During one of my extended hospital stays, age 19, I was averaging six diarrhea shits a day. This wasn’t the diarrhea you see after eating Chipotle—I’m talking about a low viscosity liquid.
Most times I went during the day, but sometimes I'd get up at night with the extreme urge. I could count the number of seconds I had to reach the toilet on both hands. During the day it was never a problem because one of my parents would quickly unplug my IV pump and I’d rush to the bathroom. But at night I was alone, I was groggy, and I wasn’t given any notice. This is a bad combination.
I woke up with the sensation that a creature was knocking at the doors of my asshole ready to come out. At first I fought it, clenching my anus as hard as I could. But I had to start moving before I burst. I had to get off the bed, bend down to unplug the power cord and walk eight feet to the bathroom, all without compromising my watertight rectum. I was doomed from the start.
Leaking isn’t the appropriate word. I’d go with pressurized shots of liquid shit. The first one seeped through my boxers and onto the bed sheet. Then it started running down my leg, leaving a trail all the way to the toilet. When I finished pooping I cleaned the floor and threw out my boxers. I didn’t feel like facing the embarrassment of telling my hot nurse I shit myself, so I slept on the top sheet. In the morning when my nursing assistant changed my sheets I pretended to be occupied with important emails.
That wasn’t the only incident. A couple months later I got the urge after taking my morning pills. This time I didn’t give the creature enough respect. Either that or my anal muscles were overworked and exhausted (shut up, I don’t swing that way...not that there's anything wrong with that). Nonetheless, my asshole was far from watertight. Right as my feet touched the floor my ass erupted like a volcano. The shit accumulated partly on the sheet, but mostly on the floor in what looked like a small mud puddle.
I buzzed the front desk. “Can you send my nurse in?”
I paced around the room trying to figure out what to say. When she arrived she looked down at the puddle, then at me.
“I couldn’t hold it.”
Before changing the sheet she called in the janitor. My immune system was fucked-up so I couldn’t leave the room. I had to sit there and watch as he mopped my shit. I couldn’t even look him in the eye.