Life From The Edge Of A Toilet Seat. Part Two (The Toilet Zone)

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.

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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.

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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!

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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.

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9 thoughts on “Life From The Edge Of A Toilet Seat. Part Two (The Toilet Zone)

  1. Oh, this could degenerate into some more loo humour so easily if my brain could actually think of anything witty to write. Just imagine that I said something funny and we cackled together like demented colon-challenged loons, and I hope that I gave you a little dose of the shits. 😉 😉 🙂

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  2. Again. I think we must be related. Two ways I refuse to die. On the toilet like Elvis or choking on a ham sandwich like Mama Cass! Wtf? – Oh Lily, I hope knowing how much you make the rest of us smile makes you smile too. Every time I read your post I wish for that magic wand to take away your pain.. Hugs, hugs, hugs and more hugs. ❤

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    • Sometimes when I’m sitting there, I get these chest pains called costochondritis, which mimics a heart attack (seriously, that shit is painful!) and I always think, “please don’t let me die on the toilet like Elvis! Please don’t let me die on the toilet like Elvis!” And even though I’d be dead, my ghost would be mortified and deeply embarrassed.

      It has helped a lot to be able to get this stuff out, because I don’t talk about it with anyone. It’s a bit like an online therapy session. Now if you guys are reading and enjoying it, (all 3 of you) then that makes me MORE than happy and so does your precious comments.
      Thank you as always dear friend. xx

      Liked by 1 person

      • Omg. Totally me. Like somehow I will know when I’m dead how people are going to laugh at me or make fun of me because I died on the shitter like Elvis! Or, choking on that fucking ham sandwich like big ‘ol Mama Casss! I will know and I will haunt everyone who laughs at me!

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  3. No bloody window in your tiny bathroom? Ugh! I lived in a flat in San Francisco for nine years with a tiny bathroom like a closet and no window, and hated it. Every bathroom really must have a window. I feel for you having to go in the dark because of such poor lighting and after expending so much energy just getting to the bathroom. 😦 When you wrote about the time that your legs gave out, and the time you had the arthritis pain in your hand, I wanted to cry for you. I have osteoarthritis too (mainly in my left foot and hand) but not anywhere near as bad as you do because I imagine the fibro makes it more difficult. I smiled when I read how your womb fruit told you that you were never a bad mother. Sweet son!

    Lily, I love how you find a way to put a positive spin on tough situations, and situations that people don’t really talk about. I never knew a blog post about going to the toilet could be so entertaining! (OK, that watermelon image is going to stay with me the next time I’ve got to push one out lol!) Hugs! ♥ xx

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    • I know! It’s ridiculous! All the other rooms in the house are a nice
      size and then we have this teeny tiny bathroom and no sodding window. Taking a shower means turning on the fan AND keeping the door open so that you don’t pass out through heat exhaustion!
      I do tend think a lot when I’m sitting there and to be honest, I quite like the dark. But my thoughts can turn dark if my legs go numb or I try to stand and can’t and so have to wait until it passes. But yeah, fibro definitely makes the osteo worse because they’re both in the same areas and the pain is so similar. But the worse place to have it is in both the hands and feet so I really feel for you. As for Spawn, he is a tremendous nut job and a MASSIVE pain in my rear, but he is also sweet and a good, well meaning, well intentioned soul.
      I read your comment before going to bed and that last paragraph made me smile so much. Thanks for your continual kind words and support. xx

      Liked by 1 person

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