The death of my grandfather came as a huge shock to my mom. He’d survived a blood clot in his ankle that resulted in the emergency amputation of his leg below the knee. He was hale, hearty and looking forward to getting out of the hospital. Gaga (yes, pronounced like the current lady diva of questionable manners and gender) had directed his eldest son, Lionel, to go forth and prepare the way by buying a new Cadillac with automatic transmission so he could drive himself home. Seriously.
"Never give up and never, under any circumstances, face the facts" Ruth Gordon
He’d phoned mom that morning to talk with her, share the news of his progress and his final words to her were reassuring. There couldn’t be anything wrong with him now because he’d had a good poop. Yes, that was how he knew he was on the mend. It was a generational thing, you see: if your bowels were working then God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.
Well, it wasn’t such a great predictor because he collapsed later that same day and was dead before dinner. And left mom with a mixed blessing to treasure in his final words. “Oh dear, you talked to him the morning he died? What were his final words to you?” “Well….” At least it wasn’t the last act of his life as was the case for Elvis or, contrary to
popular belief, Catherine the Great. Not exactly the picture you want to hold of your parent’s last moments on earth.
It does illustrate, however, the importance the act of elimination represented to that generation. Or so I thought. There is a lot of material out there about the 19th century obsession with keeping the pipes clean. I can’t find the article now but remember reading about a man working in an African hospital where the high fiber diets resulted 2 or 3 bowel movements a day for each patient. His comment was that, as he carried away each brimming pan, the consistent volume and frequency made him ashamed to be an Englishman…
As she got older, my mom became obsessed with easing her bowels. Considering the number of things she obsessed over before finally slipping into a psychotic state, poop had to work hard to keep it’s hold on the No. 1 spot (so to speak) in mom’s rather confused mental workings. I thought it was part of her degenerating mental state. Turns out I was wrong on two fronts.
First of all, it was, as previously mentioned, a generational thing. She was raised by the Kellogg generation – cold showers and lots of fiber for good health. It’s only natural she measure health by those same standards.
Secondly, as one gets older…along with all the other things that they don’t print in the brochure…one’s metabolism slows down. Remarkably. I dare say the amount of metamucil, ducolax, milk of magnesia and other forms of digestive blasting caps in a person’s arsenal are in direct proportion to the number of birthdays that person has chalked up on the calendar.
I will spare you any further reflections on this subject other than to say, at some point you too will come to have a visceral understanding of what it means to feel like each meal is an exercise in packing a musket.
I'm sure there are better pictures to illustrate packing a musket but this is my blog and I can put up the pictures I want....