There comes a time in everybody’s life when they have to surrender. They have to give in. Their hands are tied. They have to retreat. They are getting ready to wash their hands.
I am at such a point. I am at the end of my tether. I am waving the white flag.
I am finally ready for the laxative.
Please do not be disappointed. I no longer have the time to be constipated. Whilst we are on the subject, I do not have the time for the other thing either.
Yesterday, I realised after spending two hours on a ceramic bowl sweating through my nightie, that I was fighting a losing battle. I can recall my 17 month long reason for not taking laxatives but my enemy has changed, and I do not think my weapons are strong enough. I am too busy to remember to prepare and eat linseed everyday. The fortnightly velcade injection is preventing me from forming a routine, and it is keeping me on my toes with its unpredictable attacks. For two months, I have been unable to take my eye off the ball due to a very real fear of being caught short. I am fighting on my own. In this fight, it is not fair for me to slip my bowel woes into conversations with Housemate when he returns from work. Nobody needs to know. Big Sister is also not prepared for my observation on the frequency and odour of my wind. It is not right.
Enough is enough. My head is bowed.
The truth is, there is not enough time between my injections for my body to regulate and there is too little time between my injections for my body to get used to the cleaning product. It is torture or at least any torture I have ever known. Two months of it.
So, with the treaty signed I really home with these laxatives that I, Emma Jane Jones will be able to start making regular, erm, reparations.