So I'm cleaning out my old shitty computer in preparation for the coming of my baby. The last thing that's got to get out of there is the computer. But I found a whole bunch of nonsense I wrote years ago. It was kind of fun finding it and rereading some of it. Most of it us unpublishable. But this little story is semi-reasonable. Not the best writing, but kind of a funny story about me witnessing my grandfather getting an enema.
An Enema for Grandpa
“Can someone bring some soup to Grandma and Grandpa tomorrow?” The request was simple enough, and since I’m currently unemployed, I figured it would be the least I could do to help out. Besides, they’re old and lonely. It’ll be good to spend some quality time with the grandparents. I volunteer my services.
“I’ll go. It’s not like I’ll be working.”
“Well, you might get a call to substitute in the morning.” Ah, my mother, ever the optimist. Or at least ever pretending to be the optimist.
“Let’s be honest here. No one’s calling me tomorrow morning. I’ll take them the soup.” It’s settled. Sometime upon the ‘morrow, I will set out on a quest to deliver soup, and beef stew, to my grandparents. It seems simple enough. Show up, chat for a while. Listen to my grandpa bitch. Listen to my grandma respond to a question I didn’t actually ask. It’ll get me out of the house. And that’s a definite plus. In reality, there is nothing that could have prepared me for what I would witness that fateful Winter day.
I wake up in the morning around ten. As is the routine, I make my way to the shower where I marvel at the sheer hilarity of soap. No more than a few hours ago, my brother no doubt was rubbing this object on his balls, ass, and the rest of his body. Now, I rub it all over mine. No way does that seem right. But that’s soap for you. I turn off the shower and dry off. As I’m putting on my attire for the day, my father tells me that he’s going to the store and has left the soup for my grandparents on the kitchen counter.
“All right, see you later,” I yell back. I begin contemplating my day. First, I’ll eat some cheerios so I have an excuse not to eat the microwaveable Tyson chicken my grandmother is undoubtedly going to offer. Then, I’ll have the house to myself for a bit, so I will probably sit around with music on. Probably around noon I’ll drive out to the school district office to make sure all my substitute teaching paperwork is in order. Finally, I’ll go spend an hour with the grandparents. I’ll get there at about 12:30, put in an hour, and tell them I have a 2:00 racquetball game to get to. I’ll have gotten out of the house. Sounds like a reasonable day.
So I stick to the plan. I read the newspaper while eating my cheerios. There’s really nothing in there that’s very exciting. I put on some music, sit around for a bit, and I’m finally off.
When I get to my school district they tell me that my fingerprints, which they lost once already, have not yet arrived, but should tomorrow. “So I’ll get a phone call?” One lady laughs. I don’t know why. I was supposed to get a phone call a week ago when I originally got fingerprinted for the job. They “misplaced” them. Somehow I’m supposed to feel better though, because they lost somebody else’s too. Now it’s a week later, and I still haven’t been called to substitute. One more week, and I abandon substitute teaching altogether. Life.
So now it’s time for my surprise visit to my grandparents. Deliver the soup. Oh boy. I put on the Talking Heads, which is weird, because I don’t like them. I think their music is generally trite, dishonest, and absurd. But I can’t stop listening to “Road to Nowhere.” It’s troubling. “Psycho Killer” is ending as I pull into my grandparent’s driveway.
The front door is unlocked. It’s not supposed to be unlocked. They’re old. They’re really old. Pushing 90. My grandfather had a heart attack a few months back, has something like a 99% blockage in the artery that goes to his brain, he doesn’t move well, and my grandmother had recently fallen down the stairs again. They’re old. There are people who prey on old people. Rob them. What have you. The door should be locked. When I enter the house, I soon find out why it’s unlocked.
It’s nothing but delight to see me, though my grandfather looks considerably worse than he did when I last saw him, one week ago. I’m soon informed that my cousin Timmy is coming back from Walgreens. Tim is a couple years older than me. He lives closer to them, so he gets charged with lots of errands.
“Yeah? How’s he doing?”
“He’s getting Father a Fleet Enema.”
And there it is. Too much information. Lately, the point of “too much information,” T.M.I., as I’ve come to call it, is usually reached within a half hour. That’s how long it takes for my grandmother to start telling me about my grandfather’s bowel movements, or lack thereof. Today, though, the T.M.I. has been breached under the minute mark, a new record.
And it continues.
“He hasn’t gone in three days now. So Sally, the nurse who comes, told us we had to get a Fleet Enema. First I thought she said ‘Speed Enema,’ so I wrote that down here-” She holds up a notepad that, sure enough, says, “Speed Enema.”
“-but then she spelled it out for me. Fleet.” She makes an effort to pronounce every letter. “Fleet Enema. It’s supposed to help get the bowel movement going.”
“Do you know what that is?” My grandfather chimes in.
“Nope.” I don’t know what a Fleet Enema is. I know what an enema is. But not a Fleet Enema.
“It’s to wash out your rectum.” Now every word is pain. Part of me wants to say, “Yup, well, there’s the soup, and I’m going now. Have a good enema.” But part of me doesn’t want to offend. Maybe even a small part of me wants to be able to tell this story. No. No part of me wants that. But I stay. After all, I’m not going to have to deal with it. They probably won’t even do it while I’m here.
I hear the door opening. “Timmy!” My grandmother is delighted. Sure enough, Tim comes walking up the stairs with a bag from Walgreens. And a cluster of emotions is on his face: embarrassment, regret, awkwardness, surprise, and countless others.
“Hey, what’s going on.”
“Hey, what’s up.” We exchange pleasantries.
“Uh, I got your enema. Two pack. Easy squeeze.” He says it all with a smile. We’re both in on the joke. It’s pretty funny.
“Oh, how much was it, honey?”
“Uh, two dollars.”
“Really? That’s it?”
“Yeah, I guess the enema market is pretty flooded this time of year.”
“Two for two dollars. Wow.” My grandmother is genuinely surprised. But it’s a plastic bottle filled with salt water. How much could it cost?
My grandmother retrieves two dollars, and out of the bag comes the two pack of Fleet Enemas. Fleet, it turns out, is the company cashing in on the do-it-yourself enema market. Somewhere out there, people produce enemas for a living. That’s pretty funny.
She takes one out of the box and shows it to me, “This is in your future.”
“Not if I start smoking again.”
She starts reading the directions. Out loud.
“Remove orange protective shield from enema comfort tip before inserting. With steady pressure, gently insert enema tip into rectum with a slight side-to-side movement--oooh, side to side--with tip pointing toward navel.” She stops. “I don’t think it’s going to get all the way to there.” “Insertion may be easier if person receiving enema bears down, as if having a bowel movement. This helps relax the muscles around the…”
She looks at me. “A-N-U-S?” I blush. “What’s ‘A-N-U-S?’”
I’m too…horrified, I suppose? To respond. Apparently so is Tim. So she continues to spell out the word she doesn’t recognize, “A-N-U-S.” Finally, my grandfather informs her, “It’s your hole.”
“It’s not my hole. It’s your hole.”
“Anus.”
“Oh, anus.” She laughs. Then continues, “Do not force the enema tip into rectum as this can cause injury. Well if I’m not supposed to force it, how is it supposed to work?”
Tim, braver than I, offers, “I think they mean to be gentle. Just don’t force it.”
Trying to help out, I make a stabbing motion with my hand, and say, “Not like this. Soft.” Immediately, I laugh as I realize that I just made a stabbing motion, referencing sticking something up my grandfather’s ass. It’s pretty funny.
“Squeeze bottle until nearly all liquid is gone. It is not necessary to empty the bottle completely, as it contains more liquid than needed. Well, why do they have so much then?“
“Probably just in case. It’s better to have more than you need, than not enough.“
“Remove Comfortip from rectum and maintain position until urge to evacuate is strong (usually 2 to 5 minutes).”
“There’s a diagram on the box of how you do this,” Tim says.
She struggles to find it.
“It’s underneath your hand.” He has to forcibly remove her hand from the box and point out a diagram of a man in two positions. First, he’s lying down on his stomach. Below that, he’s on his hands and knees with his ass in the air like he’s going to be mounted from behind. Either way, there’s no way my grandfather can do this.
“Well he can’t do that. He’ll never get up.” The entire time this is going on, my grandfather is growing more and more nervous, embarrassed, and tense. But my grandmother just won’t stop talking about it. “Well this is no good. We’ll never be able to do this like this.”
“Well I’m going to go,” Tim says. “I’m probably going to go to work. Then I have to go to welding class later tonight. But call me if you guys need anything.” Then he looks at me, “You really picked a great day to visit.”
“Oh yeah.”
But my grandmother continues asking questions about the administration of this enema. “But how much do I do? How will I get it in him?”
So, Tim sticks around. He tries to explain everything to her some more. I’m still smiling, but trying not to. I can’t help but let out the occasional giggle as memories of Sex Education class run vividly through my head.
Suddenly, I’m back in Mrs. Kufta’s classroom in the 5th grade. The teacher says the word “penis,” and I can’t help but laugh. My laughter is followed by everyone’s laughter is followed by Mrs. Kufta yelling at the top of her lungs, “Babies! Real babies!”
Back in reality, I know I need to get this laughter under control before my grandfather has an aneurysm from embarrassment. But my grandmother keeps making light-hearted remarks about the whole thing. “An enema a day keeps the doctor away.” Finally, he yells at her, “Stop making jokes about this Hank!” (Short for Henrietta.)
She defensively turns to Tim and remarks that she has to try and keep it light. Which is true. He calms down. She takes off the cap of the enema bottle and is in awe, “It’s all greasy.”
“Yeah, I would imagine it would be,” I say. Meanwhile, Tim has moved to the bathroom to scope things out. When he returns, he mentions that it would probably work if grandpa leaned up against the metal bars they have in the shower. Handrails cover the walls of the shower in pretty much all old people’s homes. It seems that age and safety precautions are inextricably linked in life.
Tim’s got a plan. And I’m all for it. As long as I don’t have to witness anything. And it seems that this is the case. My grandmother is going to take care of everything. Tim and I are going to hang around just in case the old patriarch falls down or something. Bottom line is, I am not going to have to see my mother’s father naked. I’m pretty excited about that. I’m pretty sure that Tim is too.
So, the two of us clear out the bathroom. I move the hamper into the bedroom, and Tim takes care of some other stuff. I really don’t know what, because I was moving the hamper into the bedroom. And taking my time with it at that. As my grandfather made his way over with his walker, I made sure that Tim was closer, just in case.
Now the two of them are in the bathroom. I stand in the doorway.
“Where is she?” Barks an anxious old man.
“Grandma?” I call. “Uh, she’s coming. She’s getting something or another.”
“Well, I guess these are going to have to come off.” And that’s when it happens. That’s when he drops trout and I see my grandfather’s ass in all of its wrinkly, veiny glory. If there is a God, he is playing the greatest joke of all times at that moment. The pathetic history of the Chicago Cubs, a second President George Bush, Scientology, laserdiscs, Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch, and the Bible being taken literally can’t compare to the punch line that God has been setting up my entire life. Because in all the cosmos, I exist, and have now seen my grandfather’s 89 year old ass. A glimpse of things to come. My ass in 66 years. That is not pretty funny.
And like that, I am down the hallway. That is a glimpse I am not ready for. If he falls, I’ll be there a little bit later. My grandmother is in the bathroom with the enema soon enough. Tim joins me in the hallway immediately thereafter. And are our faces red. Laughter. Awkward laughter. Apparently, he recognizes that we’re the butt of the greatest joke of all times too. So, we take our minds off of what is happening. Which is, my grandmother, separated only by two thin layers of drywall, is sticking a squeeze bottle into my grandfather’s, “A-N-U-S.”
“Is that okay?” Goddamnit.
“I guess. Is it in?” Goddamnit.
“Yeah. Here it comes.” Goddamnit.
“Oh!” Goddamnit.
“Are you okay? Does it hurt?” Goddamnit.
“No. It’s just cold.” Really Goddamnit.
Tim, “I suppose maybe I should be timing this.” Smiles. Laughs. Pulls out his watch. The sound of water splashing on the floor rings in my ears.
“Oh no.” Goddamnit.
“Well I guess that’s going to happen.” Goddamnit.
“What are you taking it out for. Just leave it in there.” Really really Goddamnit.
“Well I don’t know if it’s in there.” Did I mention, Goddamnit?
“Just leave it in.” More water splashing. “Oh no.”
“I have to take it out to let more air into the squeeze bottle.” Understandably. He’s supposed to be lying down. From the sound of it, he’s mostly upright, which can’t make it easy to drain the salt water solution from the bottle.
“It’s getting all over the floor. Is anything even getting in there?” Goddamnit.
“I don’t know. I hope so. I don’t think it’s coming out of you, it’s just spillage.” I shouldn’t be hearing this.
I start looking at pictures of all the grandkids as babies. Underneath the pictures, there’s everyone’s birthdates. Anything to take my mind off of reality. I didn’t know that Andy was born in July. Interesting.
“I’m all wet now.” Goddamnit.
“All gone. Now just get on the pot.” Godblessit. It’s finally over. And he didn’t fall over. No sweat. I practically sprint to the kitchen. The worst is behind me. Tell yourself again. The worst is behind me.
A few minutes pass and Grandma reenters the kitchen. “Nothing.”
“Oh no?” Tim inquires. But it’s not an “Oh no,” meaning, “Tell me more,” so much as, “I’m obligated to inquire, but spare me the details as much as possible.”
“Just a couple little-” she indicates a small amount with her thumb and forefinger.
“Nuggets?” I finish the sentence.
“Yeah. Nuggets.” She agrees. That’s pretty funny.
So it didn’t work. All of that for nothing. And the next day, they’re going to have to do it again with the help of Sally, the nurse. Let her deal with it. I’m scarred. What was supposed to be an excuse to get me out of the house turned into a joke of cosmic proportions at my expense. Contemptible Prankster, you’ve won this round.
As I explain these happenings to my father, he delights, “You should turn that into a story.” When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Or in this case, cut them up and put them in a pitcher of margaritas. Maybe that will help mellow the sounds and images forever scarred into my brain. “What’s A-N-U-S?” That’s pretty funny.
