THE HENRIETTA JAMES SERIES: LEPER WITH LAZY INTESTINES SEEKS CLEAN TOILET TO R...

THE HENRIETTA JAMES SERIES: LEPER WITH LAZY INTESTINES SEEKS CLEAN TOILET TO R...: EXCERPT FROM, " Henrietta James BOOK TWO: Well Some People Poop Sometimes . I leaned back against the wall, sprawled out on on that c...

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Henrietta James

BOOK ONE

Not Everyone Poops

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LEPER WITH LAZY INTESTINES SEEKS CLEAN TOILET TO REST HER HEAD

EXCERPT FROM,


"Henrietta James BOOK TWO: Well Some People Poop Sometimes.

I leaned back against the wall, sprawled out on on that chair like I'd just taken a beating while the Doc asked me the same question.

"Do you have an eating disorder?"

"No."

"Are you sure you don't have an eating disorder?"

"Yes."

"It's okay to be honest. I'm here to help you."

I just stared straight ahead. My body hurt. My head, foggy with no horn to lead the way.

"No response? Listen I'm not here for my health."

That's ironic coming from a doctor.

"They said you don't eat much. And when you do, you throw it up."

I sighed and looked at him.

"I don't have an eating disorder. I do hate food. But that's because it hates me."

"Now," he looks at the file, "Henrietta is--"

"I am not finished my good doctor friend! I am food's nemesis. It doesn't hurt to eat because I think I'm fat. I don't think I'm fat. In fact, I need to gain a few pounds because my hips are jutting out so far that I can't sleep on my side anymore. It pinches! I have never been a back sleeper. Sleeping on my stomach is like littering in Singapore. Asking for trouble! And a good caning."

"Okay, so you are not sleeping well?"

"Still talking Doc! I am here specifically because my work made me come in because they caught me yakking my guts up in the bathroom. Actually they found me leaning against the toilet so exhausted that I couldn't even move my head. Do you know how disgusting those toilets are?! Do you?!"

"So you are throwing up?" he asks.

"I told you that when I first got here. I told you that when I eat it just sits in my belly and ROTS! I feel like a rotting log; weak, hollow and falling apart."

"Why haven't you gone to the doctor before?"


"I did. For years. They don't know what's wrong with me. It could be I.B.S. it could be...anything that they don't know enough about to test for. Besides, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters."

"Don't say that. Hop up on the bed and lie back. Lets check your gut."

I laid back on the hospital bed, an aching groan escaped my throat. Doc checked my stomach. Each gentle push he made into my bloated to December stomach, I grimaced and breathed deep trying not to yelp "Mommy!"

Finally he stopped. I sighed and pushed myself up slowly. Doc grabbed his rolling chair and rolled himself over to me.

"Missy you have a months worth of food stuck in that belly of yours. I have to be honest, I am very surprised. I don't know what to tell you except I believe you don't have an eating disorder."

"I TOLD YOU! Ha! A small victory. Everyone thinks it's an eating disorder. Everyone stares at me like I'm a leper. And maybe I am one. But...thank you!"

I would've jumped up and hopped around like a vibrant froggy before the firecracker exploded in the mouth but instead I fist pumped the air while steadying myself against the hospital bed.

"Now Missy, what do you want to do about this?"

"Go home, watch television, make a collage and relax. Go to work tomorrow and hope I don't throw up."

"There has to be something we can do. I can't right now because we are in ER and there is no dire need for the testing at this moment. But if you make an appointment we can run a series of tests--"

"I don't have health insurance. Four years ago I was dumped because of my condition. Two years ago I was offered health care through my work. They fought me on every medical bill that was related to my stomach or intestines claiming it to be a pre-existing condition without even a diagnosis. I paid for insurance just to be denied. Awesome!"

It's like he was my therapist and I was spilling my angry, wretched medical history guts. It felt good to get it out. If felt good to finally be listened to. To have someone to talk to who didn't believe me crazy or a hypochondriac.

"Insurance is awful. You may do better at this junction without it. I have plenty of free trial pills. Do you have any problems with acid reflux or anxiety? I'd be happy to send you home with whatever you need."

"I have problems with Acid Reflux after I've been heaving. I'd love some free pills. Thank you."

"I'll go grab them. You're welcome though I don't know what help I have been. Good luck Missy."

I smiled weakly as he walked out the door.

Doc was old, probably outdated and over his head where my medical issues were concerned, but I appreciated his openness to possibilities of problems and circumstances outside the realm of current medical knowledge.

He didn't pretend to know everything. Which was a change. Especially since I know nothing except what I feel, see, and am forced to experience almost daily. And what I know clashes, like Hitler and Stalin, with what the doctors tell me.

I'm not doing this for attention. I wouldn't wish this on anyone. Not even Taro Gomi or Freddie's Father.

Like, What's Your Problem Intestines?

If my intestines are NOT dead...

They are dead to me!

Henrietta James 5/30/2006

GUERRILLA WARFARE VS. INTESTINES?

EXCERPT FROM:

Book Two "Well Some People Poop Sometimes"

Dear Diary,

Today my intestines put their fight face on.

They mean war. But the battle has only just begun...

I hope it's not another Vietnam.

Guerrilla warfare needs trees.

I only got guts.

Will there be glory?

I really don't know.

HEN
November 23rd, 2001

NORMAL POOP DIALOGUE

"Dude, I don't know what you put in the coffee this morning but I've gone poop a lot," states my roommate as she departs the bathroom.

I walk into the bathroom to pee and immediately get a whiff. I yell to her, "You definitely did poop!"

She yells back, "I told you. I'm sorry."

I reply, "No, don't be sorry. I'm happy for you. Pooping is good."

"Yeah, but I've pooped like THREE TIMES today."

I finish peeing and yell back, "Now you are just rubbing it in."

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EXCERPT FROM "NOT EVERYONE POOPS"

CHAPTER 4

SCIENCE

I don’t know how to cook. I don’t know how to bake. Nor do I have the slightest idea how to fry anything. I burn soup. I evaporate water. I eat soup straight from the can. I cook my pizzas in the microwave. I can, however, make sandwiches and cereal.

It’s not that I don’t want to know it’s that it just never clicked inside this little brain of mine. They say baking is a science and I did poorly in science. Can I blame it on that? Or the fact that cooking wasn’t an event at home? Food and eating were just something that had to be done and however it happened was not questioned as long as something edible landed on the table.

Dad was the chef of the family so when Mom took on the task it consisted of Mac and Cheese with Spam or if we were lucky, Spaghetti. By then she was a single mother working 3 jobs. Mostly we were left to fend for ourselves. So I ate chocolate bars, sticks of butter with sugar on it, boxes of popsicles, and Banquet meals.

As I got older I tried to branch out but I found cooking to be tedious and time consuming. I couldn’t wait for the water to boil or the chicken to thaw or fry or whatever it does. I had a life to live. And I would live that life while the soup was burning on the stove because life doesn’t stop for baking or cooking--whatever. So why wait for the food?

Fast food was the cure. For the disease I call cooking. Even grocery stores sell ready to eat fried chicken and mashed potatoes with yummy gravy and coleslaw. Can you tell I’m getting hungry? Toss it all down with a Coke—eat a cream filled Long John for breakfast and that’s food for the day. Of course a candy bar here and there didn’t hurt. Once I could drive and had a job, the options for quick and tasty food were endless. And I hit every single one.

What is the big deal? At the time I didn’t know. I was a kid. Heck even now I don’t fully understand my situation. But I feel the weight of the situation. Every day I feel the ramifications of the choices I made as a child but I still don’t understand the why or, even more honestly, the how.

I don’t know how to change it. They’ve told me why I became what I became in the broadest of medical terms and thinking back on what happens next, I see that they could be right. But yet, I don’t understand how I am wrong.

To make the situation more confusing, I’m not overweight. So it was hard for anyone to pinpoint a problem. To see the war that was brewing on the inside. The only telltale clue was my deeply grooved dark circles. But this wasn’t a time of holistic healing. It was a time of immediate correlation. Dark circles belong to genetics or sleep deprivation; end of the road.

And that’s exactly what happened. The end of the road. And then I fell off into poop oblivion. I tumbled down the rabbit hole of puke buckets named George and eating baby food to survive, of talking to my stomach like it’s another entity and sobbing on the bathroom floor because I hate my life. I have blamed myself. Blamed my mother. Blamed doctors. Blamed a God I’m not sure I believe in.  

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. No one does. They all have their theories, their opinions and ideas of how to fix it, but nothing works.

Not everyone poops Taro Gomi. I don’t. I don’t poop. And I won’t let your book treat me like I don’t matter, like I don’t exist. I do matter. And my story matters. To someone. Out there. I hope. And if not, well, I matter to me. Rotting food and all.