By: Jamie Callahan
Updated: July 21, 2017
Originally Published: Oct. 19, 2016
I certainly didn’t plan on going commando that day. Shifting uncomfortably in my chair, I tried to create as much distance as possible from the woman next to me at the conference table. I managed a weak smile, praying she couldn’t detect any unpleasant odors.
Clearly, I didn’t intend to have an accident either.
In an attempt to be discreet, I dropped my pen to the floor, leaning down to sniff myself. No immediate red flags, but I still wasn’t reassured. Time seemed to crawl.
On most days, I would’ve made it to my office in time for a quick pit stop. But not this day. No, I was stuck in a room full of colleagues brainstorming our bioterrorism strategy, mere moments after creating my own personal biohazard.
Just a few weeks post-surgery, I had undergone what you might call a “fun” procedure, necessitated by the damage done during childbirth. Yes, I had surgery on my behind. Specifically, a lateral internal sphincterotomy, a fancy term for fixing anal fissures caused by tough deliveries. You thought pregnancy hemorrhoids were bad? Oh, my friend…
According to my colorectal surgeon (let’s keep it professional), we all have two sphincters down there. Apparently, you really only need one. To facilitate healing, they cut the internal sphincter, which helps reduce spasms and temporarily weakens the muscle. Sounds horrific, right? Well, after two years of feeling like I was passing shards of glass (thank you, precious little ones!), I was willing to try anything.
The surgery went smoothly, and I thought I was on the mend. But on that fateful day, I quickly realized the importance of having that second sphincter as I found myself in quite a predicament.
I dropped off my two kiddos and headed to work, always careful to use the restroom first. However, that day, my usual routine was thrown off. Instead of the office, I ended up at a different location, ten minutes farther away.
About five minutes from my destination, my stomach growled ominously. By three minutes out, I knew this was no false alarm. Clenching the steering wheel, I tightened everything, praying I wouldn’t embarrass myself.
Unfortunately, I was one anal muscle short, thanks to Dr. Sphincter. As panic set in, I leaned forward and wished for a miracle. Sweat dripped down my face as I careened into the parking lot, not even sure if I parked correctly. Grabbing my purse, I hurriedly made my way to the restroom, desperately trying to hold it in. It hurt.
Fortunately, the bathrooms were right inside the lobby. Since I was early—thank goodness—there was no one around to witness my awkward shuffle toward the ladies’ room.
What transpired next was anything but dignified.
As I stepped inside, my body relaxed, and I knew I wouldn’t make it without some collateral damage. Full-blown panic mode kicked in. I dropped my belongings, nearly stumbling into the stall. With the door wide open, I quickly yanked down my pants and almost cried in relief.
Needless to say, it was a scene to remember. Thankfully, the mess was mostly contained to my underwear (and my pride). I had to part with one of my favorite pairs, but there was no time for nostalgia. After wrapping them up in paper towels and tossing them in the trash, I quickly sponged off with wet paper towels and hurried back to the stall, hoping to avoid an unintentional audience. Once I felt somewhat presentable, I took one last look in the mirror and washed my hands for good measure.
Eventually, my backside healed, but I’m still working on mending my ego.
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Summary:
This humorous account highlights a chaotic day in the life of a parent dealing with the aftermath of surgery. The blend of embarrassment and relief captures the essence of parenting challenges, illustrating that sometimes, things don’t go as planned.