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(Picture: Inshoku Yojo Kagami (飲食養生鑑) by Utagawa Kunisada. Late 19th C.)
I used to enjoy shitting. In the morning, after two hours’ work and several coffees, I would retire to the bathroom with a cigarette. Having taken a natural laxative the night before, if everything was working as it should, I would relish the relief. Often, this procedure would be repeated after lunch, before my nap. Unlike modern people, I didn’t scroll through Twitter while doing this; instead, I enjoyed my own thoughts and memories, and would consider what I might like for supper. When your shitting is regular and solid, you feel reassured. The Swiss watch of the body informs us that we are, for one cleansing moment, perfectly made.
Now, it’s highly probable, but not inevitable, that I will take a big shit in my pants at some point during the day. As I have explained before, my morning begins with a suppository pressed into my rectum. If I haven’t opened my bowels within half an hour, I am hoisted into my wheelchair, certain that I will defecate within the next few hours. There is not much I can do about this, since I can’t go to the toilet or control myself. It is inconvenient, because my carer then, with the assistance of a reluctant family member, has to get me into bed, turn me over, remove my trousers, and clean me up. This gruesome business takes at least forty-five minutes and is particularly unpleasant for my kids, who never expected to be pulling down their father’s shit-smeared pants. Nevertheless, I did the same for them.
If Isabella is away and I’m alone with my carer, I may have to sit in my shit for long periods of time while my arse becomes painfully sore. By now, this procedure is neither embarrassing nor humiliating, but it’s certainly inconvenient and a waste of time.
Taking a shit is no fun anymore.
