I’m Full of Poop

For some of you long-time readers of this column, my being full of it would not be a revelation. Others may think my creating such an outlandish title is my way of getting them to continue reading. This is not the case. For I am full of poop, at least that’s what my pediatrician said. Why would someone my age be going to a pediatrician? It wasn’t the old me who went; it was a much younger me. Confused? Continue reading, Dear Reader, all will be made clear soon. But first it’s gonna get a little more confusing.

During those seven magical years growing up on that old familiar street not so far away called Flamingo, it seemed that at least one of my three brothers, The Sister, or I went to the doctor every week. Usually, the visit was because one of our “It’s safe; no one’s gonna get hurt” adventures wasn’t and one of us did. For us to go to the doctor because we were sick, we had to be really, really sick. And when I was seven years old, that really, really sick person was me. I’d already missed two days of school, so when I woke up on Wednesday still with a 101° fever, Mom took me to the doctor. 

Seeing the tall man in the long white coat only made me feel worse. Here’s why. He took my temperature – it was high. He felt my forehead – it was hot. Then he listened to my chest with the thing around his neck – it was rumbly. Then he asked me to take three deep breaths. I never got to the second breath. After the first one, I couldn’t stop coughing. It sounded more like a bark than a cough. Still, when he asked me to take another deep breath I couldn’t. All I could do was bark. It’s been sixty years, but I’ve never forgotten what the doctor said that day. 

With a concerned look, the doctor turned to Mom and said, “Your son has the poop. His lungs are full of it.” To make it worse, he added, “I’ve never seen a child this old with the poop.”

After getting prescriptions and a list of items recommended for her to buy to get rid of the poop in my lungs, Mom left the doctor’s office with me in tears. She thought I was crying because I felt so bad. Nope, I was crying because I’d never been full of poop before and I could hardly breathe.

Once home, Mom gave me a bunch of medicine, put me back in bed with a cool wet washcloth on my forehead and a baporizer next to my bed. The bowl with a lid was full of water and had a motor on top that vibrated and made a loud humming noise. Mom said it would throw a mist into the air and help with my breathing. I was so sick, I didn’t even ask how it was going to get rid of all my poop. Somehow, the next morning I started to feel better. The cool wet washcloths on the forehead all night, along with medicine and the mist-spewing baporizer had worked! The fever was off and on for the next four days, by the following Monday I was back at in school. To this day, the stretch of those seven days has been the longest I’ve ever been sick.

So, you may be asking what has happened around our house to dislodge the memory of when I came down with croup and slept with a vaporizer next to my bed for a week. Sadly, for over a week, our Sweet Caroline has been fighting a high fever and a deep rumbling cough. No, she didn’t have croup. She had the flu, and it hung on for what seemed like forever. 

I took time off from work to watch her during day five. Don’t really know if it was the medicine, cool washcloths on her forehead, or my telling her this story (she did laugh a lot whenever I said I was full of poop), but the next morning she finally started to feel better. 

Thankfully, Sweet Caroline will be back in school Monday, happy to see her teachers and friends. How many days did she miss of school? Seven – just like her Big Papa did, a long, long time ago on that old familiar street not so far away called Flamingo.