My bathroom is an afterthought. It is also what one might call bijou.
It’s as though whoever designed the house, was so overly impressed with themselves at the paper thin walls and lopsided floors, that they forgot to add in a bathroom and thus remembering so, quickly utilised what space was left.
They also forgot to add a window leading me to believe that he or she, must have been raised in a cave. Maybe they was going for that In Utero look and trying to give off a sense of womb-like tranquillity. Or maybe they just forgot to put a bloody window in!
So not only do the Womb-fruit and I have to contend with a bathroom that even an Oompa Loompa would deem too small, but the lighting system is now acting as though it’s been offered a starry role in a horror movie.
Needless to say, the light remains switched off, least one or both of us succumbs to a fit of epilepsy.
So I sit in the toilet zone, the sound of the whirring fan my only company…well I think it’s my only company, it’s too dark to see what else is in there. 10 minutes or more I sit, my legs slowly growing numb from being in the same stationary position. And I think back to the time when my legs gave out, the pain in my right knee making it impossible to stand. I cried then because I was alone and had visions of myself whiling away my life stuck on that seat. I thought back to the time when the arthritis in my hand became so bad, that my immediate reaction was “who’s gonna wipe my bum?!” I cried then too although I can laugh about it now. It was just that at that moment, the thought of having to ask for help in that particular department made the tears flow just that little faster and caused my will fade.
But I also remembered the sounds of laughter coming from the Womb-fruit as I yelled “IT’S NOT COMING OUT! OH LORD, IT’S LIKE GIVING BIRTH ALL OVER AGAIN!” Or I myself tittering as he asked in huge disgust, “what the hell have you been eating? Human Flesh?!” Before then burning half a packet of incense and complaining that I probably had the means for chemical warfare right there in that tiny room.
Because in that tiny room, I do a lot of thinking. I think about what to have for dinner or if that last piece of chocolate has been eaten yet. I think about the books that I’ve yet to read, or a conversation I had earlier in the day. I think about what to blog about and how much I want to be outside in the fresh air. I think about my family and wonder where all my friends have gone since I became ill. Are they happy? Do they miss me, or are they glad that they no longer have to deal with “that friend who’s always sick?” I muse over the the potential relationships that I’ve had to forego because I didn’t want to become somebody’s burden. But mostly I think about what the hell I’m going to do if my arse gets stuck on that seat. Shit, I don’t want to die on the toilet and become another Elvis Presley!
Some days my only exercise are the four steps that it takes to get from my bedroom to the bathroom, and they exhaust me beyond belief. I don’t want the Womb-fruit to come home and find me glued to the porcelain throne. I don’t want him to be the one that comes to my rescue. I feel like I’ve stolen enough of his childhood as it is without him having to deal with that.
I think about that too when I’m in the dark, my guilt only slightly abated by the fact that he told me not so long ago, that I wasn’t a bad mother and I never have been. And guess what? I cried at that too, but this time they were tears of happiness.
But as much as it pains me to make that epic journey to the room without windows, I have to be thankful that I still can. In a few years I’ll need both a hip and knee replacement and the success rate for my progression of osteoarthritis is 50/50. I have been forewarned that I could end up in a wheelchair, so even though those four feet are hard work, they are precious to me.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go and conquer the mighty underwater beast and release the Kraken if I am to reclaim the porcelain throne once more.