Let’s face it: When at work, nurses wait until, like, the last possible second to go to the bathroom. We’re literally just a cough or a sneeze away from an incontinence episode.
So constipation is also no stranger. And since we have no time, we don’t want that gentle, overnight stuff to deal with it, do we? We want something fast and effective. And you might think, “Hey, magnesium citrate is supposed to be a quick working laxative, so why not?”
But what happens when you drink 10 ounces of magnesium citrate? I’m glad you asked.
8:03 a.m.: It’s finally your day off. You guzzle a 10-ounce bottle like it’s a lukewarm Gatorade. It’s supposed to be cherry flavored but it’s becoming quite clear that whoever led the R&D team that day has never actually tasted anything cherry. You’re already regretting this decision.
8:10 a.m.: You eat a handful of cookies since you know they’re going to turn into liquid form almost before they clear your throat, so you don’t care about the calories. All is right in the world at this moment. You’re as happy as if you’re in a Disney movie. Hold on to that thought, though. You’re about to enter a very dark period of your life.
8:40 a.m.: First sign of action. The pressure is growing. I mean, you essentially have five days’ worth of impacted matter in your colon and you basically just drank the “safe for humans” version of Drano. Finally, you feel a bowel movement coming on. You think it’s going to be a one-and-done. You’re wrong. A solid teaser is produced but it is just that: a tease.
This is the last solid thing that will leave your body for the next 24 hours.
8:59 a.m.: This little science experiment is about to reach a boiling point. Your stomach is angry now. It hates you … it actually hates you! You have exactly 0.4 seconds to make it to the nearest toilet but you cannot run … DO NOT run! You pray there is enough connective tissue to keep the gates below closed 10 more steps as you start to preemptively undo your pants to save valuable time. Almost there … 3 … 2 … 1…
9:01 a.m.: Sweet Mary! Your bottom barely hits the seat when all hell breaks loose. The horrific mixture you’ve just created comes out with such force it imitates the launching of a spaceship at Cape Canaveral. Soon, you are looking for a seat belt. An actual seat belt!
Is that blood? False alarm. That’s just the remnants of a cherry pie you ate at Thanksgiving … when you were 5 years old. The sounds you are making are frightening. You try to clench what’s left of your butt cheeks to soften the blow but it’s not working.
9:06 a.m.-11:30 p.m.: Everything’s a blur. You feel like you’ve expelled everything you have ever eaten since the day you were born, everything your ancestors have ever eaten since the early 1800s. Your rectum now feels like you have a flaming hot Cheeto shoved in it as well as about a thousand Jalapeno seeds.
You’re now curled up in a fetal position in the tub because you have to remain near the toilet at all times. You start bargaining with your maker.
11:40 p.m.: You’re broken, your spirit and certain parts of your anatomy included.
But tomorrow is a new day. You wake up, put on the only remaining clean pair of underwear and drive to Walmart with the last shred of dignity you have left and buy yourself a new toilet brush before crawling into work.
You make a new resolution to always go to the bathroom whenever you need to.
Unfortunately, that resolution doesn’t even make it four hours into your shift!
Just keeping it real,
Nurse Jackie
The Real Nurse Jackie is written by Jacqueline Vance, RNC, CDONA/LTC, Senior Director of Clinical Innovation and Education for Mission Health Communities, LLC and an APEX Award of Excellence winner for Blog Writing. Vance is a real-life long-term care nurse. A nationally respected nurse educator and past national LTC Nurse Administrator of the Year, she also is an accomplished stand-up comedienne. The opinions supplied here are her own and do not necessarily reflect those of her employer or her professional affiliates.
