When Shit is Not a Metaphor

By Stuart Feinhor

Oh, my God. That first night. Marilyn is sleeping in what had been my bed, layered like some human Napoleon pastry, and as sweetly: mattress, plastic sheet, fitted sheet, bed pad (for wetness), plastic table cloth over her body (also for wetness), flat sheet, blanket, good night kiss. This is still fairly new to me. The bed is situated next to the wall so that she doesn't fall off. Or at least the odds are halved: she barely moves during the night anyway, going to sleep on her back, waking the same, ankles crossed. She is also wearing Depends. (Unlike many people who face incontinence, Marilyn agreed willingly to use them; it might even have been her idea. I think it came as a relief to her; I know it did to me. For many caregivers this adjustment often results in a long, painful, drawn out struggle, like turning over car keys, something, thankfully, that I did not have to deal with either, because as a retarded person she never learned to drive.)

I am on an old, inherited futon on the floor next to her. She's been with me in San Francisco for a few days now and hasn't had a bowel movement since we left Dayton. I know this can't be comfortable for her, but it has been a sort of perverse relief to me. And although we have learned to deal with her bathroom needs when it comes to peeing, I don't know how long before.... All I know is that it's inevitable.

It's the middle of the night when I am awakened by something in the air.

At first, during those initial, discombobulated seconds that greet you upon being aroused out of a deep sleep, and which feel endless when they do, I try to figure out where that smell is coming from. Is there a dead mouse in the room? Is something going on outside? I sniff around. It is definitely coming from inside. It is coming from her corner of the room. I hope it is only gas, but I know that it is not. The inevitable has arrived. I get up off the floor and turn on the light. "Marilyn," I whisper. "Marilyn, is that you? Did you poop?"

"Yes."

Shit.

"Why didn't you wake me up so we could go to the bathroom?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? Great."

Oh, my God. What am I going to do? I find myself pacing back and forth across the floor, which with my futon unrolled does not allow for much free movement. I am stalling. What am I going to do? Back and forth. What am I going to do? I am saying this out loud, my hands gripping the sides of my head. What am I going to do? It's the middle of the night and my roommate is sleeping only a few feet away, on the other side of the bathroom. I am worried about waking him up, which is stupid. I am worried about being too loud, which is stupid. I am worried about his hearing us, which is equally stupid. Finally, after what feels like a long time, I say to myself, OK, I have to deal with it. I just have to deal with it. This is when shit is not a metaphor.

She is a mess. Her Depends are a mess. The bed pad is a mess. Her nightgown is a mess. The sheets are a mess. It's been more than a week, so you can imagine. I am anxious and afraid. I am trying not to be a mess, but I don't know how well I'm succeeding. And in this moment of grave desperation, I don't consider how embarrassed and ashamed and scared she must feel, which is the most stupid thing of all. I am not proud of this coil of selfishness, but it won't turn out to be the last time that I am not proud of how I handle a situation with Marilyn.

It's gross, but I deal with it (with rubber gloves, you can touch almost anything). I roll her back and forth across the bed, as nurses and hospital aides do, to get her cleaned up and into a new pair of Depends. We are talking all the while and I am telling her that it is all right. It is all right. I sit her up so that I can put a fresh nightgown on her small, bony frame. I manage to change the sheets without knocking her onto the floor, another minor miracle. By the time we are done we have crossed another boundary of the private domain that is Marilyn's body. We are both exhausted. We have survived. Because I am responsible for her. Because I love her. Another good night kiss and back to sleep.

In the light of morning we will face the shower.

Stuart Feinhor was a loving caregiver to his Aunt through the end of her life, and is writing a book about his caregiving experiences.

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