The Constipation From HELL!

Most of us, at some point in our life, have experienced constipation (or its evil twin diarrhea). During those times, we frequently wait it out--hoping that it's nothing serious and that it will resolve itself as quickly as it came. At other times, we are forced to make that familiar trip to the drugstore, to walk down that dreaded aisle maked "Laxatives" and begin reading the labels of seemingly hundreds of brands of stool softeners, bowel cleansers and "stimulators." Interestingly, the word laxative is derived from the Latin laxare meaning "to relax" (not surprisingly, our bowels--as do other body parts--have to be relaxed to function properly). Yet there are times, rare though they may be, that constipation signals something much more serious--something, in fact, potentially fatal--that no laxative or level of "bowel relaxation" will cure. In late-June 2007, unbeknownst to me, I was suffering with this kind of constipation.


It all started relatively uneventful enough, I noticed that my bowels weren't operating on their normal schedule. Generally, I awake every morning and within 30 minutes to one hour, I'm headed to the bathroom to relieve my bowels of their contents. Oddly enough, I look forward to this time every morning. In a strange way, it reassures me that all is well, that my body is functioning properly and that I'm not stressed (as if I am stressed, it might be a few hours or even days before my bowels move). Thus, this simple bodily function serves, for me, as a daily "State of the Mind-Body" report. Not only do I look forward to relieving my bowels, but also I look forward to reading the many magazines stacked in order on the sink next to the commode (Williams-Sonoma, National Geographic, LL Bean, Mother Jones, Museum News, Martha Stewart Living, etc.). It is a relaxing moment, indeed. Often, I linger in the bathroom long after my bowels are relieved. I almost hate to leave. But, the day calls and I wipe and flush.


When I arrived in Florida on June 23, 2007, to visit my grandfather, I was very agitated. A very large consulting project on which I was working was demanding more of my time and causing me to travel more than usual. Making the monthly drive to check in on my aging grandfather was becoming more difficult, primarily because of the travel demand and the inordinate amount of housework and other chores I did while in Florida. Equally challenging was dealing with a grandfather who, increasingly, was becoming more needy as he willingly gave into the gravitational pull of the aging process. I was, in his eyes, his wife, cleaning boy, chauffeur, cook, best friend, trusted confidant, personal shopper, secretary, primary caregiver and grandson. Clearly, too many roles for one person. After twelve years of service, I was completely worn out. I had no more to give. I was empty, and I wanted my Life back!


When I awoke that Sunday morning, June 24, 2007, I began my routine--making breakfast, washing dishes and lightly cleaning badly soiled areas in the kitchen (I would do the heavy cleaning over the next four or five days). Since I was so agitated, I knew that I had to have a serious talk with my grandfather. We were going to have to hire a housekeeper. My nerves were so frazzled that I did not realize that I had not moved my bowels that morning. Instead, I was angry and I needed to express myself. While preparing breakfast, I went over in my mind how I would approach the subject, as my grandfather was not a person who dealt well with change. Finally, I decided to talk to him after we ate. I would gently begin the conversation while he finished his coffee and while I washed the breakfast dishes.


I ate our familiar breakfast slowly--grits with butter and cheese, sauage and bacon (one piece of each) eggs for my grandfather, coffee and orange juice. Nomally, I ate with the appetite of a lion. Back in Atlanta I did not often cook like this for myself. In Florida, with my grandfather, my southern roots exposed themselves and I fell easily into patterns of eating that had nurtured me from childhood. This morning, though, I wasn't very hungry. In fact, I didn't finish my breakfast. I threw out almost half of it. This behavior struck me as odd, as while I prepared breakfast I did not notice a potential lack of appetite. I remember making a mental note of that moment. In contrast, my grandfather "woofed" down his meal (an eating behavior that earned him that nickname when my grandmother was alive). He is a voracious eater and generally finishes a meal with remnants of the meal in his moustache and on the sides of his mouth--not a very pretty sight. When he finished, I collected the dirty dishes and began KP duty.


As he sipped his coffee, I began my pitch. I began by telling him about my new work load, about how much traveling I was doing, and about how the seven- to eight-hour trip from Atlanta to Deltona was beginning to take a toll on me (actually, it had already exacted from me a significant toll). He listened, almost, though, as if not completely understanding. I spoke slowly and clearly, making sure that he was following. Then, I lowered the boom. I told him that I wanted to bring in a housekeeper to clean the house so that I wouldn't have to do as much work and so that we could have more time to ride around and visit friends and family (which he really enjoyed doing). Flat out, he declined the offer. I rebutted by telling him that he would not have to pay for the servce, I would foot the bill. He refused. He didn't want a stranger cleaning his house. At that point, I did not know what to do. I felt more agitated and I was furious. I thought to myself, "How could he be so damn insensitive?" How selfish! Little did he know, though, I had made a mental executive decision. I was not going to continue with this routine. I was spent. And I knew that I could not go on. We would have a housekeeper.

Later that morning, I did move my bowels. It took quite a while, with significant strain, and the effort didn't produce much of a result. I knew something was wrong, but I chaulked it up to the extreme stress under which I was operating. As the week wore on, I noticed that my appetite fluctuated between being very weak and almost nonexistent. And, the constipation continued. In fact, very little waste left my body that entire week. Mostly, I assumed it was due to my not eating very much. In addition to the poor appetite and the constipation, I also had two consectutive nights during which I had extreme pain in my lower back. The first night it was on my left and the second night it was on my right. The pain was accompanied by severe night sweats and discomfort. Again, in my ignorance, I summised that the rotting waste in my intestinal track was wreaking havoc on my immune and other body systems. Fortunately, the week ended. I had completed all the cleaning in the house and I was ready to get back to Atlanta.

The drive back to Atlanta was difficult. I felt weak and my stomach was in pain. I remember stopping at a McDonalds and ordering a fruit salad. And although I was somewhat hungry, I barely got it down. I just wanted to rest. After driving just over seven hours, I arrived at my apartment. I was home. The Fourth of July was just days away, and I was looking forward to not having much to do. In those days just before the holiday, I continued to have a weak appetite. Also, I would ocassionally experience severe abdominal pain--so much so, that I would double over on the floor, writhing like a wounded snake. I had never experienced constipation like that, I thought. My innards were in turmoil.

I spent those days just before the Fourth, as well as the actual holiday, in varying degrees of pain and/or discomfort. On Thursday, the fifth of July, I suddenly wanted to eat. I went to Whole Foods and purchased fresh salmon and string beans. I returned home, prepared my meal and ate. It was delicious. I felt as if I were on the road back to recovery. Whatever I had gone through, was almost over--so I thought.

The next morning, at about 6:00 a.m., my friend Pattie called. It is our custom to catch up and chat during the early-morning hours, once or twice a week, as she drives into Washington, DC from her home in Gainesville, Va. I relish those talks and her friendship. Both sustain me in times of great joy and despair. This morning was no different. I began to share with her what I had been through while visiting my grandfather in Florida and upon my return to Atlanta. She listened carefully and then, in her usual gentle manner and in her characteristically soothing voice, she suggested that I see a doctor. She didn't sound an alarm and she didn't make me worry about the worst. She simply thought that since the symptoms had gone on for a couple of weeks, it wouldn't be a bad idea to let a doctor check me out just to make sure everything was okay. I ageed. And, since I hadn't gone for a check up in many years, I was somewhat willing to go--if only out of curiosity.

Later that morning, I asked my friend Kate for a referral. The doctor she recommended, Dr. Nolan, happened to have a practice within walking distance of my apartment. What luck! When I called and described my symptoms, he scheduled me for 10:00 a.m. Monday morning (July 9, 2007). Actually, he fit me in between scheduled patients. Once in his office, I again described to him the sypmtons I had experienced--constipation, loss of appetite, abdominal pain, fatigue, some weight loss, ocassional night sweats, and two episodes of lower back pain. He withdrew a few vials of blood for lab work and gave me a packet with which I was to collect feces--homework. Once the visit was over, I began to walk home. It was a beautiful summer day, and I was feeling good--certain that the results of the lab work would reveal a simple problem with an equally simple solution. Ironically, the constipation had begun to resolve itself the weekend prior to my appointment (so much so that I had considered cancelling the appointment with Dr. Nolan--fortunately, I did not). Before going home, I went to a local vegetarian restaurant and had lunch. I was feeling somewhat fatigued, so I walked the rest of the distance home and chilled out.

The next day I busied myself with activities around the house while waiting for the doctor's call. When I did not receive it by noon, I decided to take a drive out to Fairburn, Ga. where I was building a beautiful new Martha Stewart home. The house was fairly complete and I enjoyed walking around inside imagining the fun decorating project it would be. I was scheduled to close on July 26, 2007, just over two weeks away. I was very excited. I didn't hang around the house long, as I wanted to get back to my apartment to see if the doctor had called--he had not. It was just after 2:00 p.m., so I relaxed a bit before getting ready for my afternoon shower and Oprah. At about 3:45 p.m., just after I started to run the water for my shower, the phone rang. It was Dr. Nolan. He told me that he had received the lab results and that I should run (his word) to Grady Memorial Hospital. My kidneys, he informed me, were about to shut down!

Mentally, I had no context for this information. For although I had family members and friends who had been hospitalized, I never had been. Hospitals, in my mind, were places to which "other people" went, not I. And, after a rather involved exchange, I agreed to go. I was terrified. First, I called my friend Karen. After my telling her briefly what the doctor said, she cut me off and told me that she was leaving work immediately to come pick me up--I'm not quite sure how she understood what I said through the tears and mucus. I was a wreck. Then, I called my mom, my sister, and my friend Pattie. I faxed to them the lab report the doctor had faxed to me and, when Karen arrived, they all exchanged phone numbers. The web of support had begun to weave its loving threads around me and I was about to embark on the most profound journey of love and compassion that, up until that moment, I had ever known.

Next Week: It's My Kidneys, Damn It, Not My Brain!