The Time I Fumigated A Hospital

As one of seven children, I developed a refined ability to divert blame. When someone spilled a bowl of cereal (milk and all) and left it puddling on the kitchen floor, my little sister did it. When I forgot to flush after a leisurely No. 2 in my kindergarten’s single toilet bathroom, I blamed the act on a ghost. In my 9th grade algebra class, while sitting in the second to last row, I cautiously attempted to release a toot I was certain would pass silently. Nope. But did I hold myself accountable? Absolutely not. With a thunderous clap, my expulsion ricocheted off of the plastic chair like a hellacious baseball, startling the otherwise soundless class. This fart was (obviously) not the variety you could blame on the chair; nothing could have made that noise apart from a human anus. As the entire class looked back, row by row, like human-sized dominoes, I followed suit and looked back with them. Daniel, the unfortunate soul occupying the very last seat, had no one to look back to. He inevitably took the fall for my acoustic mishap.

Tragically, in this eponymous story, I had no one to blame: I was the only other person in the room.

In August of 2013, at the ripe age of twenty-one, I was hospitalized for debilitating symptoms of PTSD and anxiety. Under the care of phenomenal doctors, my condition improved remarkably throughout my two week stay. The flashbacks stopped. I no longer suffered night sweats. Psychologically, I was well. Physically, though, I was in pretty rough shape.

While the intensity of my panic attacks had plateaued, the rate at which they occurred was still upwards of daily. So, in an attempt to reduce the frequency of episodes, the attending physician prescribed me a potent beta-blocker. He explained, if my heartrate couldn’t skyrocket, I couldn’t have a panic attack. That explanation made good enough sense to me, so I obliged. Well, this move backfired. Horribly. My blood pressure dropped so low that I was unable to stand up without passing clean out. Laughing made me lightheaded and I was constantly dizzy. Consequently, the medication was immediately discontinued and I was placed on bedrest. And, because I was a “fall risk,” I required a nurse’s assistance to use the bathroom.

At the time of this medical blunder, I had been in the hospital for nearly two weeks. Which was more than enough time for me to develop a gut-wrenching crush on one of the day nurses. Lia was a heartbreakingly sweet and compassionate person. She was also, of course, drop dead gorgeous. She had long, flaxen hair that flowed like a waterfall over her shoulders. Her cocoa skin, smooth as butter, always smelled incredible. She walked with a lightness that made it seem as though she floated every way she went. And, as saccharine as it may sound, I swear her smile literally brightened the dimly lit hospital halls.

Naturally, I always looked forward to the days Lia worked. Not just because she was easy on the eyes (although that was particularly appreciated, given the situation), but because she was so goddamned kind and sincere. When she asked you how you were doing, she looked you in the eyes while awaiting your response. She listened. Her responses were custom tailored to the individual, never generic or obligatory. When you’re in a ward filled with a dozen other people, all hurting equally as much as you, this treatment is precious.

Aside from developing googly eyes for the pretty nurse, another side effect of my stay was . . . Well . . . of gastrointestinal nature. If you’ve ever subsisted on hospital food for an extended period of time, you probably know what I mean. After a few days in the unit, I noticed I had exceptionally pungent gas and a lot of it. On any other day, I would excuse myself to the bathroom to prevent poisoning the other residents. But, at this point, even if I was able to independently excuse myself, it would have been in vain. The toots were uncontrollable. They came unannounced and without warning. I was defenseless to my own bodily functions. So, I resigned to damage control. I frequently aired out my blankets to prevent both the inadvertent gassing of a nurse, and to prevent the putrid stench from permanently staining the linens. It was truly horrible.

Now, before you assume I’m merely exaggerating, let me qualify my authority on Stench Analysis. Growing up, my childhood home was a mannerless place. Farts were funny, loud burps were revered. My siblings and I had developed a plethora of pranks that revolved around flatulence. Bodily functions, in general, were considered a talent and were graded on a scale of 0 to 10. As I entered my teens, I strayed away from such gaseous humor. Unfortunately, no one else in my family did. The first time I brought a boyfriend home to meet the family, my mother’s greeting was rather unconventional. The moment he walked in the door, my mother, yelling from the bathroom, rhetorically inquired if anyone wanted to “come look before [she] flushed.” This introductory meeting also included a “pop-drop” (one individual sits on another, empties the tank, then runs off before getting caught) from my mother to my new boyfriend. She claimed it was an “initiation.” Seriously. It was pretty fucking mortifying.

To further validate my credentials, my father was a marine who, amongst other things, had a track record for causing family members to puke. One time, he “dutch-ovened” my pregnant stepmother causing her to vomit all over their room. Another instance, as my dad and I drove to Walmart, he locked all the windows in the truck before releasing his caustic gasses. I subsequently opened the passenger door of the moving vehicle, to barf on the passing road. It is unknown whether my father’s stomach was chemically altered by too many MREs, the odd variety of things he ate while training in the jungle, or if war simply changes a man (gastrointestinally). Regardless, all the family agrees something had died within him.

My experiences have effectively awarded me a nose of steel. From my brother’s protein farts to my father’s nuclear fumigation, when I deem something “rank,” it's not child’s play. Its fucking bad. And those days in the hospital - they were fucking bad. And I was stuck there. Without a window to open or a way to escape, the hours were an endeavor.

I remember thinking to myself how fortunate it was that Lia was off that day. How embarrassing would that be? I thought. At least I could sigh a sigh of relief.

Nope. I was wrong.

I heard her bubbly voice enter the hall outside my room. Lia was answering another patient’s query: Yes, it was her day off, but she had picked up a coworker’s shift. That’s why she was there. The stress of my impending doom had caused my bowels to react, reflexively contracting out another noxious whisper. I began frantically flapping out my bedding. Her voice was drawing nearer. My panicked sheet-beating made me severely dizzy. I had to stop and lay back on the pillow to prevent myself completely blacking out. I heard a knock before Lia’s head peeped around the door. “Hey, Steph,” she sang from the doorway. “I’m sorry you’re not doing well today.” She hadn’t moved any closer. Thank christ. “I need to go help someone else but I’ll be back to check on you later!”

I replied as coolly as I could muster, “okaytakeyourtimethankyougoodbye.” If words could sweat, those certainly would have. She walked away unscathed and unknowing.

A couple of hours later, the gas had calmed down and I hadn’t seen much of Lia. When I was confident my room and linens had sufficiently aired out, I pressed my little nurse-button for a bathroom break. One of the other nurses called back to me, “I’ll be right there!” As I patiently waited for my toilet escort, I felt a sense of relief that Lia had not answered my call. Not ten seconds later, sweet Lia came to my aid. The mere sight of her and the thought of a possible outburst felt disastrous. As my body bloated with dread, I could hear my bowels groaning again.

“Hey sweetie,” she cooed as she neared. “Let’s get you taken care of!”

She held my hand as she instructed me upward, “Slowly, slowly.” I sat up completely without any escapees. Lia smelled like lilacs and jasmine. A stark but welcomed contrast to the hospital-fart atmosphere I had been submerged in. The thought then occurred to me that I could be tainted. That the room could actually smell awful but, because I had marinated in it all freaking day, I was none the wiser. Her smile remained unchanged since she entered the room, so I figured it was probably unlikely.

After sitting at the edge of the bed for a few seconds, the vertigo subsided and we were ready to transition into a stand. Lia, positioned next to me, held my arm to help me ascend. Slowly but surely I made it to my feet safely. No fainting, no farting. For a brief moment, I thought everything would be just fine. Then, as I took my first step toward the bathroom, it happened. A low, droning creak infiltrated the quiet room. That instant, my heart dropped into my butt. The worst was actually happening.

I tried to hurry toward the bathroom but Lia chided, “Slow down! No need to hurry! Better we take our time than have you fall again.” I wanted to scream. I tried to say, “No! You don’t understand!” But words were beyond me. My tongue had dried out like an old, forgotten sponge; like my mouth had entered a vacuum and the only noise it could expel was this part groan, part croak, “uuuuggghhhhh.”

The acrid odor moved swiftly, overwhelming our snail’s pace like a sandstorm. I silently gagged. Lia’s throat cracked like she had choked but tried to disguise it as clearing her throat. As she was a few inches in front of me, I could see her whole face. Her nose was attempting to twitch itself out of a crinkle. Her eyes were watering. Oh my god. Her eyes were watering.

When we arrived to our destination, Lia gently guided me to the railing along the wall. I closed the door and prepared myself to cry. Just as I thought the floodgates would break, I caught a glimpse of myself in the metallic mirror. My eyes were watering, too. I had been so concerned with Lia’s reaction, I failed to notice the snot pooling under my reddened snout.

After pleading to any god listening for the stench to have passed, I reconfigured myself and what was left of my dignity. Upon exiting the bathroom, what little composure I had gathered abruptly nosedived. God is dead, I thought. The stench was still going strong - pungent and putrid as ever. To call it “embarrassed” would be a semantic disservice to the angst-ridden humiliation I was experiencing. I was mortified.

Lia gingerly took my hand and began guiding me back to bed. I could not make eye contact with her. Shit. I couldn’t bear to look even near her face. This time, all I could utter was “I am so sorry” over and over again. She responded with the aphoristic “mhm” that roughly translates to “I’m acknowledging your words but we’re not talking about this” but in the sweetest voice humanly possible.

Two days later, Lia returned from her weekend. She went back to smiling, speaking gently, and moving with the grace of a freaking swan. She was still kind to me but something was different. Our dynamic was clearly irrevocably changed. And I don’t blame her. I essentially tried to poison her. Any thoughts I previously had of how/would it be wrong to ask for her number had disseminated into methods of saving face. Then, those methods morphed into tactics of avoiding her all together.

Fortunately, I was discharged the next day. Even more fortunately, my two best friends picked me up. The sight of their beaming faces was a gulp of fresh air. Later that day, I divulge to them the story of “The Incident” (as they fervently dubbed the situation). Watching my friends laugh hysterically at my perceived humiliation made me laugh, too. Which, after spending two weeks in a locked unit, felt particularly great. Like, weightless and free.

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