farting

There’s a lot of farting in our room. Before I would’ve been disgusted, but now I think, ooh that has a healthy sound, nice resonance. When my cancerous rectum came down like a lid inside my asshole, I couldn’t fart at all. The pressure from the gas was trapped inside me. I kept on and keep on lighting on the image of a watermelon, and I’ve never known why. I think it’s because I imagine that watermelon getting filled with gas until it explodes. I felt like I was going to explode. So farts=good. Also, it gives me free reign to belch out loud after my meals. We’re just doing what we have to. 

And I would be the farting champion of our room anyway… at least as far as frequency goes. My stoma’s an active fellow. Until yesterday or the day before perhaps, that little guy wouldn’t shut up, constantly hissing at me. It’d make other sounds, but the hissing man, like it was disapproving of everything I said or did. My old bag was constantly blown up like a fugu. I had fart gloves, medical gloves I used to get rid of the gas and not the shit. Basically you hold the end up, this is the part where you need gloves because it’s a little bit dirty, okay, shitty, and with the other hand you simply apply pressure to the bag. You get a foul smelling bed for awhile and a flat bag. Then seeing that they weren’t marred with any visible drops of shit or otherwise, I sprayed the gloves with alcohol to get them ready for the next time. The little fellow isn’t as chatty now. Means my stomach is settling I think. That’s probably good news right. 

By the way, and oddly, I talk about all the farting going on in the room and yet no one asks about our farts. This room, this very same room I was in before, they would ask about their shit and their farts. All. The. Time. I called it the room where they ask you about your farts. I guess for this round of patients farts don’t matter for their conditions. Like mine I guess.