Grace for the... Mess?

This story involves a little TMI, a lot of humility, and one very small plunger.

You’ve been warned.

David and I recently drove to the family beach house in Seaside for the weekend, to see his brother Jim. On the way, we visited a number of antique stores - it was a beautiful, clear day. Outside the last store in the little town of Aurora, David decided to use the restroom before we hit the road. I sat on a wooden bench on the sidewalk outside the store, soaking up the sun and watching the slow trickle of weekend shoppers drift past while he went back inside. About fifteen minutes later (longer than I thought it would take) he came out, looked at me and said, "I got lost." I thought nothing of it.

We stopped for McDonald's and continued on to Seaside.

I had been on a GLP-1 medication for a while. One of the unavoidable side effects is constipation, and I had been backed up for a couple of days. I had secretly hoped McDonald’s would take care of that... it usually did.

It didn’t.

Sitting in the living room, as Jim and David chatted, I did a little research on my laptop to see what I could do to get things moving so I could enjoy the rest of the weekend. The internet did not disappoint. I found a list of reasonable, home remedy options. At the end of the list, it said, "You might not want to do all of these at the same time."

Whatever. I was uncomfortable.

It suggested I do ONE of the things and then walk for 10 minutes to get things moving.

Still hoping McDonald’s would kick in, I did two of the things and set out on a walk with David.

Way past 10 minutes.

Bad idea.

We walked down the street and around the corner, toward the Promenade, the long concrete path that runs along the dunes, wind whipping off the ocean and people strolling in both directions. About six blocks away from the house, my stomach sent warnings. I couldn’t admit to David what was going on; we’re still in the ‘honeymoon’ phase, having only been married a little more than five years. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t believe I poop at all.

The ocean sits just beyond the dunes, out of sight from the Promenade, with plenty of sandy paths leading over. David wanted to go take a quick look. I stayed behind, my stomach already making its intentions known. Secretly, if I stepped off the cement and onto sand, the extra effort of walking on dry sand felt risky. I wasn’t confident I could control… things.

He came back five minutes later, and we started back for the house. My stomach started violently churning. I walked slowly. Every 20–30 feet, I’d stop, hold everything together, then gingerly start again.

David looked worried.

I don’t think he understood exactly what was happening, but I couldn’t exactly tell him. The graphics are embarrassing.

All the way back for 20 minutes: stop, clench, walk a few yards, stop, clench, walk a few yards.

About a block and a half from the house, I almost lost the battle. I thought I was toast. I stopped, clenched, and stood there for a long time, mentally calculating the distance home and the social consequences of not making it.

David offered to go get the car several times. I finally told him I couldn’t sit down and get back out again without very bad things happening.

I think he understood.

We made it back to the house and I bolted for the bathroom. Thankfully Jim was at the kitchen table watching a loud basketball game on his laptop; David paused to watch over his shoulder. Thankfully, the bathroom offered at least a little acoustic privacy.

Relief was short-lived. I quickly realized that if I flushed, the 30-year-old plumbing might not be up for the challenge.

Nothing.

Of course.

I risked it.

I’ve never prayed so hard in my life.“Please go down, please go down, please go down!”

Nope.

Watching in a panic, it stopped right before boiling over. I went out to the kitchen and asked for a plunger. Jim paused the game and found one from the other bathroom.

When I saw it, my heart sank immediately. It was tiny. A short handle, maybe a foot long, with a rubber cup that looked wildly unqualified for what lay ahead. It looked better suited for a dollhouse than a toilet.

I realized it was for a sink. Apparently, it was all he had.

I tried plunging, gingerly. Nothing. The water level went down ever so slightly, so I flushed again. It immediately started rising. I frantically plunged with this toy, splashing dirty water everywhere; all over me, on the floor, and just before it breached the rim, it finally let go.

I was a mess but relieved, damp socks, wet pant legs, a splattered floor, and dignity hanging by a thread. Fifteen minutes later, I emerged from the now-clean bathroom in fresh clothes and clean skin like nothing had happened.

David, of course, had put two and two together.

I walked into the living room, caught his eye, and said,“Well… I guess the honeymoon is over.”

He just laughed. “You know that detour I took to the bathroom at the antique store? I didn’t get lost.”

I instantly knew what he meant. Bless him.

I felt much better.

A little grace, a little grit, plenty of laughter,

~Stef