An Open Letter to the Nurse Who Gave Me an Enema Bottle and Told Me To Do It Myself While I Was High on Morphine.
Hello Nurse,
Given you work in a busy emergency ward, I don’t expect you to remember me.
It was a late November night in 2007 and I came in with severe abdominal pain.
This pain was on par with the labors of my children so I would like to thank you for the morphine. It stopped my screaming and gave me a decent “just peed in my pants” buzz. I would also like to thank you for the blanket you gave me when I got the chills. I would be nothing if not appreciative for the good things you did for me.
I’m not 100% certain whether it’s protocol to have patients give themselves enemas, or whether the nurse is supposed to do it.
If asked, let’s say, by a stranger on the subway,
“Hey, suppose you go to the hospital and need an enema, who would give it to you?”
My guess would most likely be nurse.
I’m still not even certain why I had the enema.
I loathed having to admit to all of you that I had pooped that morning.
Regardless, the fleet enema bottle was handed to me,
“The bathroom is down the hall.”
“Pardon me?”
“The bathroom is down the hall. You take the top off the tip, it’s lubed, you bend over, squeeze and hold in the water for as long as possible. Then sit on the toilet and let it out.”
“Okay.
I’m a nervous wreck when it comes to attempting new things, and the morphine certainly took the edge off having to put a bottle of fluid up my ass in a public washroom. Also, I really don’t like feeling mortal, and poo is just one of the obstacles that gets in my delusional ways. I’m a clean freak. I don’t use public washrooms. I don’t poo.
Nurse, I remember quite well, standing with my hand against the wall, bent over with the bottle poised to insert into my asshole. A Herculean feat, getting me into this situation, yet you… you managed to do it by simply asking and giving me the tool and meager direction. Without the morphine in my system, you would have been giving me that enema, and I would have been lying sideways on a bed with my iPod blaring, concentrating on something like the failed series “The Cosby Mysteries”.
Whether it was procedure to have patients give themselves enemas, or merely you taking a break for an egg salad sandwich and using my morphine dazed state against me, I will never know.
Hand against the wall, I took a good long look at myself in the mirror and thought, “Crunch time.”
You weren’t very good at giving instructions dear Nurse. At this point I realized I had no idea how long to hold the water in, but really, I had no concept of time because of the morphine.
Fortunately you didn’t lie when you said the tip was lubed. Also, it was thoughtful, or rather mandatory (?) that the bottle and fluid was heated a little. Nonetheless, it made the event more comfortable.
As the bottle squeezed empty in my hand, strange sounds erupted in my body. Clugs, and squeals. I inched my way over the the toilet wondering how long I could possibly hold this water in? Suddenly it occurred to me that gravity could help the situation, however, when I put my head between my ankles I was not prepared for the head rush and subsequent morphine derived spins.
I fell.
As I fell, a spray of water erupted from my body and spattered to the floor. Not much, but certainly enough to be ashamed of. I couldn’t stop the eruption so I gave up the holding part, got up and voided into the toilet.
I can’t claim I was spry in my movements, you know, given the morphine.
And I’ve blanked out and can’t recall exactly what state the washroom was in after the fall. But I did manage to clean up the mess with the paper towels available to me in the washroom.
I’m not sure how long I sat on the toilet wondering if I was done or not because it certainly seemed as though a lot more went in than came out. And like I said, you weren’t very clear with how long this entire thing would take me.
When I came out of the room I walked back to my gurney and pulled the curtain. You arrived within a few minutes. You asked if I felt better. I said yes.
I could read nothing on your face. Were enemas not your forte in nursing school? Were you a deviant? Were you put on earth to help me find my inner animal spirit? I will never know. What I do know is, that my pain was gone, and I had just gone against all of my moral excellence in that emergency room public washroom.
I’d like to quickly tell you how this experience had a positive effect on my life,
1. The following week I visited my family doctor, when he entered the room and asked, “What’s new?” I responded, “Life changed when when I gave myself an enema with high on morphine in a public washroom” And I have been a favorite patient since ever since, he even makes extra time to see me for last minute crisis with my children.
2. Giving enemas was a great skill to acquire. I had my third child in August of 2008, and the week I was due I gave myself several enemas at home to prevent the feared “shit while i push the baby out” every pregnant woman dreads throughout her gestation.
Nurse, I’d like to thank you.
Whatever your reasons, whatever they were, I am a better person for having given myself an enema while high on morphine, for unknown reasons, for undiagnosed pain, in a hospital, on my birthday.
Yours, Kelly Oxford
