Sunday, December 2, 2012

Annie and the Whispering Straw

  The following story is eerily (and possibly disgustingly) true. Only the names have been changed out of a distinct fear that “Annie” will somehow manage to find me and kick the dog biscuits outta me. (And no, this is NOT about me! My level of desperation has never managed to reach these amazing heights. Yet.)


  And now we’ll continue with tales of IBD Awareness Week…


  Annie was a housewife who LOVED her job. She was weird enough that she delighted in cooking, cleaning, and generally herding her family into an appearance of something she wouldn’t mind being seen with in public.
  Annie also had a deep, dark secret that few people knew. (Hence the term “secret”?) Annie had Crohn’s Disease. But it got worse. Far, far worse! Annie also “cohabitated” with the Unspeakable-H. (That’s hemorrhoids, y’all.)
  On this particularly dark and gloomy day, Annie found herself in the middle of a flare. She had spent what felt like the last 10 out of 12 hours perched atop her porcelain throne, while everything except her fillings emerged from her – emergence area.
  The afternoon found her in a different state of – affairs. She had obviously eaten something on the “Do Not Eat EVER list, since she was rapidly filling with gas. And I don’t mean normal gas, I mean the most PAINFUL, foulest-thing-you-ever-encountered-in-your-entire-existence-gas of a horrendous Crohn’s flare.
  As poor Annie rapidly swelled to the point she could have easily been mistaken for a Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon character, she suddenly discovered the WORST part of the equation. Her Unspeakable-H had been so annoyed by those 10 hours of reading sitting on her throne, that they had somehow morphed into a life form of their very own.
  They were now like some gigantimous Fist-of-Doom guarding the Gates of Flatulence, punching her with mucho gusto every time the poor woman tried to walk, stand, sit, breathe, or even speak the four letter words that situations like this normally called for.
  And worse still? (As if it could get much worse?) The Fist wasn’t allowing ANYTHING to pass, especially the gas that continued to inflate her poor pain-filled bod.
  As Annie fished around in a kitchen drawer for SOMETHING that would help (like a staple gun with which to create ventilation holes to release the gas), she found something that gave her an idea. A HORRIBLE idea – yet, desperate times did call for DESPERATE measures!
  Squinting her eyes tight so she wouldn’t be forced to look herself in the face over this one, Annie gingerly lifted the drinking straw she’d found out of the drawer and – you guessed it. She handed the straw to the Fist-of-Doom and waited to see the results of her Hail Mary pass.
  Imagine Annie’s surprise and utter JOY when the straw acted as a pressure valve, releasing the painful gas and allowing her deflation to begin! Imagine Annie’s panic when the throne room began to fill with noxious fumes that made her nose turn inside out and crawl inside her skull in an attempt to strangle her own brain!

  She darted to her bedroom where she traded her usual T-shirt and sweats for a lovely mumu, giving her the freedom to move about the house while the deflation continued. After all, these houses didn’t clean themselves! Besides, the toxic cloud the followed her with the most gentle of whispered hisses, kept her moving at high speed. She might as well sweep and dust as she sped by things. (Annie was very practical like that.)
  As her Hubby and children arrived home from work and school, they were a little confused to see Annie zoom-cleaning all over the place. And was she wearing a mumu?
  They paused momentarily to wonder where her sweats and T-shirt went before continuing on with their usual evening business of asking her loving questions like, “Mom! I’m hungry. What’s to eat around here?” “Will you make him stop touching me!?!” “Hey honey, where’s the remote?” and “What’s for dinner?”

  There were really only a few things about that day that Annie’s family never did figure out, like why did they hear a gentle,
whispered 
“hhhhiiiiiisssssssss” every time Mom
walked past? Why did the house smell of deep-fried, rancid cabbages? 
(And my personal favorite) Why did Mom keep sweeping by Dad’s chair and popping into the kid’s rooms just to
say, “Hi!” giggle like a fiend, and pop back out?

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