Missile of Mercy

Be careful what you ask for.

The trend during the past two weeks as our daughter recovered from ureter surgery was Incontinence. And then over the weekend, inexplicably and unexpectedly, it turned into Constipation.

(I apologize to you now, daughter, for this blog entry).

The Zoo Sleepover was a huge success, until the very end, when she didn't want to walk. Didn't want to do one more walkabout the zoo; didn't want to walk to the car. Her legs hurt. Her legs hurt, and well, she needed to go. Needed to go, but didn't want to, for fear that it would "sting."

As Sunday progressed, so did her discomfort. Incredibly, her appetite didn't abate either. As she moaned, she asked for food: Sure! Have more watermelon! And here's a drink of Metamucil, honey! We fed her just about every natural laxative we could conjure, cringing at the knowledge it was all just piling atop a Plug of Poop.

I'm happy to report that I never truly knew what it was To Be Constipated until after the C-section birth of this child, the one that just had her own surgery. We have matching scars now, and near-matching experiences. I won't go into detail about my own Descent Into the Bowels of (FROM) Hell, except to say the solution ultimately involved a relative making a late-night run to Rite Aid, my marriage is all the more intimate, and my brother got a new Hawaiian shirt out of the deal.

At about 9:00 last night, after hours of my little girl writhing in pain while curled up on our bed watching The Complete First Season of Fraggle Rock, I called my mother (my parents, by the way, deserve major props during this Post-Surgery Season: it was my father who called in a prescription for the pill form of the dreaded Raspberry-flavored Ditripan and who suggested we could revert to the preferred oral amoxicillin and shun the already-shunned sulfa antibiotics with which we came home from the hospital, saving us from more Medicine Meltdowns and filings at Child Protective Services).

Mom offered that the merciful thing to do at this point was employ the Suppository. Really, Mom? How do I suggest that to my four-year-old daughter?

YOU DON'T TALK ABOUT IT, was her response.

Hmmm. Let's see: Pardon me, kiddo, while I accidentally slip something somewhere I have told you No One Should Ever Go (until you're of consenting age, at least).

I had to wrap my mind around the concept of Merciful=Glycerine Missile Inserted Into My Daughter's Netherparts, as well as send her father on a mission for such accoutrements. And that was before we actually formulated a Game Plan for this Undertaking.

Needless to say, docking occurred, the details of which I will spare us, and move on to the OUTCOME, hahaha.

Her immediate response was to scream GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT.

A predictable, understandable response.

Unfortunately, her next move was to shriek CALL THE POLICE! CALL THE POLICE! CALL THE POLIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICE, screaming and yelling with fervor the likes of which we've neither seen nor heard before. It seems pertinent to mention here that it was a warm night and our windows were open wide.

I am still surprised we heard no sirens. Of course, I am now wondering what would happen--if anything--if murderers were in our house and we were screaming for assistance, only twenty feet away from the neighbors.

Less than ten minutes later, however, the Eagle Landed and it was All Over. The actual resolution happened peacefully, almost uneventfully.

And because my daughter is truly a sweetheart, truly a thoughtful little girl, the first thing she said to me was, "Thank you, Mommy, for putting that thing in my bum. I feel much better."