Also Contains the Word "Fart"

(May 23, 2003)

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"The problem is...well, you know how the hospital dietician said I could introduce new foods slowly?"

"Yeah. Uh oh, what did you eat?"

"Big salad."

"Oh boy."

"Lettuce. Carrots. Those little grape tomatoes I'm in love with."

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An aside: The weirdest part about the diverticulitis thing, coupled with the weirdness of how my body provided zilch in the way of sneak-previewing the whole intestine-ripping-open-in-Zurich event, is some of the theory behind WHY such a thing would happen. Some Internet-published gastro-studious talking heads say that it's purely about diet, that countries like France and Australia and USA (we of lower fiber diets) log more cases of ruptured intestines than countries like Asia or Africa (they of higher fiber diets). "You'll have to change your diet," my uncle Vinnie said. "Eat more vegetables." I can't buy that. I eat plenty of vegetables. I lost 32 pounds last year due to eating "more vegetables." And fruits and nuts and protein and cutting way, way down on breads and pastas and dairy and starchy foods. Yes, I stopped being SO diligent last fall, during the Hedwig production-- late nights and take-out, you know how it gets-- and I haven't lost any more, but between then and now I kept those pounds off. In general I'm not likely to choose a croissant for breakfast over fruit and yogurt. I'm way less likely to have the fettucine at lunch, opting for my favorite, the big salad with chicken on it. So what the fuck? People all around me practically live on pizza and beer and cigarettes. How come THEIR intestines remain intact, goddammit.

In the hospital, after about a week, they started me on food again. First, toast and tea. Then soups. Then more solid things like rice and fish. But no vegetables. I was dying for spinach. Perhaps some carrots. Maybe an apple? DISallowed! Then SOME vegetables were okayed, as long as they were cooked. Some fruits too, as long as it was well-cooked. No fresh fruit, no onions, no garlic, no leafy greens. I was dying for a peach. A banana. Hey god? This is YOUR work, tell somebody to bring me a freakin' banana! They did say that after three weeks, I could start to introduce one new thing at time, see how it goes. So this is Week Five and I've been doing that. Strawberries. Apples. Zucchini. So far, so good.

The biggest potential heartbreaker was the idea of a salad-free future. So the other night, I bought (drumroll please) the makings. And made a big salad. It was more satisfying than sex. Well, more satisfying than SOME sex. You self-centered disappointments know who you are.

Yay, salad. There was only one problem.

(FFFFFtttth) Gas. In the bag. Now, "gas in the bag" was something the medical staff in La Chaux de Fonds was eagerly awaiting in the first days after surgery. Few things reduce a usually unflappable grown woman to helplessness than having her bag fart applauded. It seems it's the first post-surgery sign that the colostomy is working.

It's working.

(FFFFFtttthpppprrrr) "I didn't know it could make NOISE!" said Hub.

"It makes noise."

"But I thought fart noise was caused by the sphincter."

"Apparently the sphincter has little to do with the fart noise."

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"And you can't even hold it back or anything!"

"No. There is no sneaking."

The big salad set off an astonishing amount of gas. Hub was extremely amused. Almost more vexacious than the uncontrollable, incommodius noises issuing from the hole in my side is the fact, obvious if you think about it, surprising if you don't, that the bag fills with the gas. So it's...poofy.

"Look," I said, pressing my oversized T-shirt around the little bulge like a pregnant woman showing off her burgeoning bulk. The bag is about the size of a longish sandwich bag, and it affixes to me with a very sticky backing. "Now you know, you can actually trap your farts in a bag. You've always wondered."

"Oh my GOD!" he said. "Hey, if it gets REALLY full can it pop off and fly around the room like a balloon?"

We'll have to see, won't we.

(Click to read the letter I sent to the many kind people who sent me notes, called, signed the guestbook, and came to see me after I got out of the hospital)