It’s on the sixth of seven steps up to the bathroom that I recognize I’m not going to make it to the toilet. The last week of my existence has been spent laying completely prone in a Lay-Z-Boy chair in the living room of my Dillon, Colorado condo, and after downing nearly an entire prescription bottle of laxatives over the course of a week, the need to take a dump has finally hit me, and hit me hard. I don’t typically have a constipation problem, but after snapping my femur clear in half, I’ve been administered a cornucopia of drugs big enough to tranquilize a bear that has effectively put a halt on any bowel movements for the past seven days. To add to the dilemma, I’m living in a condo teetering on the side of the mountain. From the top down, and each on a separate floor, the layout includes a garage (at the top), kitchen and bathroom, living room, master bedroom, and guest bedrooms. You don’t have to be a math wiz to recognize that adds up to five different floors in a single condo. Before I’d broken my leg, my bed was at the very bottom, but out of necessity I had a hospital bed placed in the living room so I could access the kitchen and bathroom without a trip up four flights of stairs. Regardless, both sat a floor above the living room, so whenever I would need to eat or use the bathroom I’d have to load up my crutches and find a way up those seven dreaded steps.
Anytime I was forced to make my way up the stairs was a nightmare situation. I went so far as to limit myself to two meals a day because the thought of repeating the Herculean effort necessary to summit the stairs was simply too daunting. Falling backwards could leave me completely debilitated at the bottom of the stairs in excruciating pain until my roommates got home, so I’d always lean further forward on my crutches than I should be out of fear. This time however, leaning forward wasn’t enough. At stair six I come to the humiliating realization that I am 18 years old, and five seconds away from crapping myself. Crutching up the last stair, I’m in a mad “dash” to the bathroom door five feet away, but the door is closed, further slowing me down. Just as my hand closes on the golden doorknob it happens; a weeks worth of backed up bodily waste explodes into my sweat pants.
I’m standing within spitting distance of the porcelain goddess.
Dropping the crutches, I fall to the floor, hitting the sink hard with my broken leg and barely catching myself on the rim of the toilet bowl. The pain is otherworldly, causing the tears to begin flowing again like a glacial stream in the spring off my face as I struggle to regain footing on my right leg in order to actually sit on the toilet. There’s crap on the floor, crap in my pants, crap on the toilet seat, heck, it may have been on the ceiling.