Wetlands (5 page)

After the operation and
the explanation by the esteemed Dr. Notz, I should now be crapping merrily. One sentence in his long-winded talk caught my attention: I will be discharged from the hospital only after a successful bowel movement with no bleeding. That is the indicator that the operation’s been a success and that everything’s healing properly.

From this point on, people who have never been introduced to me before come in every few minutes and ask whether I’ve had a bowel movement. Noooo, not yet! The fear of the pain is insurmountable. If I were to press a log of crap past that wound, my God, what would happen? It would rip me open.

Since the operation I’ve had only granola and whole-grain bread. They tell me my granola shouldn’t sit in the milk too long before being consumed. It should make it into the stomach and intestines in a fairly dry state. That way it will absorb fluid in the body and swell, pushing against the intestinal walls from the inside and thus signaling that it wants out.

The urge to crap should be greatly heightened that way. They’re chucking bombs in the top but down below I’m all cinched up with fear. I’m not going to crap for days. I’ll just do as my mother does—wait for everything to disintegrate inside.

Can you eat pizza while you’re waiting to take a crap? I don’t ask anybody; I decide that it’s important for rectal healing to eat things you like. I call my favorite pizza delivery service, Marinara. I know the number by heart. It’s easy to remember, like those phone-sex lines. I’m really excited, but I don’t let it show. I try to sound as belligerent as possible: “One mushroom pizza. Two beers. Saint Mary’s Hospital, room 218. The name is Memel. And make it quick. It better not be cold when it gets here. Just go to the front desk and they’ll call me.”

I hang up as quick as I can.

There’s an urban legend that made the rounds a while ago; I think a lot about it. Two girls order a pizza. They wait and wait but the pizza never comes. They call the delivery service a few times and complain. Eventually the pizza shows up.

It looks a little funny and tastes odd. By coincidence, one of the girls is the daughter of a food inspector, and instead of munching the rest they put it in a bag and take it to dad.

They all think maybe the pizza’s gone bad or something. Instead it comes out in the lab analysis that there are
five different people’s sperm on the pizza. This is how I picture it getting there: The guys at the delivery service are annoyed by the phone calls. Since the complaints are being made by girls, the delivery guys have rape fantasies. The usual. They talk about it, come up with a plan, and all whip out their cocks to jerk off on a pizza. The pizza baker sees all the other guys’ cocks. And not just in their normal state. Fully erect. Being jerked off and coming. That’s why I’m envious of men. I’d like to see the pussies of my friends and schoolmates. And the cocks of my friends and schoolmates. Especially when they’re all coming. But you hardly ever have the chance. And I don’t dare ask.

I only get to see the cocks of men I’m fucking and the pussies of women I pay.

I want to see more in life.

That’s why I love to break into the public pool and go drunken skinny-dipping after a night out clubbing.

The whole trespassing thing is a little problematic. But at least you get to see a few cocks and pussies.

Anyway. I’m always extra mean whenever I order pizza. And I complain even when it doesn’t take long. I’d love to eat a pizza with sperm from five different guys on it.

It would be like having sex with five strange men at the same time. Okay, maybe not exactly sex. But it would be like having five strange men blow their loads in my mouth at the same time. That would be something for the
memory vault, right? To be able to say you’d done that: well done.

I can’t even walk. So there’s no way I can pick up the pizza. Shit. Now I’m leaking. No way. I’ll have to ask someone to pick it up for me. There’s no way the receptionist is going to walk around passing out pizzas. Robin will have to do it. The emergency buzzer. Is that wrong? Oh, well.

A different nurse comes in. His name tag says Peter. It makes me smile. I like the name Peter. I was with one once. I called him Piss Peter. He was really good at going down on me. He would do it for hours. He had quite a unique technique.

He would clamp the dewlaps between his teeth and his tongue and then rub his tongue over them. Back and forth. Or with his tongue flattened out and a lot of spit he’d lick from my asshole up to my snail tail and back down. Pressing hard against all the folds.

Both techniques were very good. I usually came multiple times. Once so hard that I pissed in his face. He was mad because he thought I had done it on purpose. It was a little humiliating—the way he was kneeling there and then that happened.

I patted him dry and apologized. I thought he should be proud. Nobody else had ever accomplished that. To make me come so hard that I lose control of my bladder. And I wasn’t drunk or anything.

After a while he realized how impressive it was. I learned that day from Piss Peter that it burns when you get piss in your eye. How else could I have ever found that out?

“Where’s Robin?”

“Shift change. I’m the night shift.”

Is it already that late? Do the days in a hospital go by that fast? Apparently. I’m losing my mind. Fine. It’s not so bad here, Helen. Time flies when you amuse yourself with your own thoughts.

“How can I help you?”

“I wanted to ask Robin a favor. I’m a little uncomfortable asking you. We don’t know each other.”

“What was the favor?”

“I ordered a pizza. It’s going to be delivered downstairs soon and I can’t go get it. I need someone who can walk and is willing to bring it up here.”

Maybe a nurse like this isn’t interested in real nourishment, and this plan will fall flat.

“Aren’t you supposed to eat high-fiber foods after the operation? Granola, whole-grain breads?”

Shit.

“Yes. I am. Doesn’t pizza have any fiber?”

Super idea. Play dumb.

“No. It’s actually counterproductive.”

Counterproductive—against production. Everybody here thinks only about bowel movements. It’s my choice.

“But it’s also important to eat things your stomach is accustomed to. Sudden changes in diet aren’t good, either, for encouraging bowel movement. Please.”

The phone rings.

I answer.

“Is the pizza here?”

I hold the phone to the side and smile at Peter, eyebrows raised in question marks.

“I’ll go get it. We’ll see what happens,” he says, smiling handsomely as he leaves.

“Nurse Peter will come get it. Don’t give it to anyone else. Thanks.”

I’m lucking out with these male nurses. They’re much nicer than the female ones.

I lie back and wait for Peter.

It’s dark outside. I can see myself reflected in the window. The bed is very high so the nurses don’t hurt their backs maneuvering the patients. The glass goes the entire length of the wall from right to left and from the ceiling down to the radiator. When it’s dark outside and light inside it functions like a giant mirror. I didn’t need the camera at all, eh? I turn my ass to the window and crane my head as best I can. It’s all blurry. Of course. It’s double-pane glass. It reflects two images, slightly staggered. Good to have the camera after all. When it’s dark out I can lie with my ass to the door and see who’s entering the room without turning
around. Cool. But can everybody outside see me now? Oh, who cares. They know it’s a hospital. It’s impossible not to recognize it. At worst they’ll think it’s a poor little crazy girl who, out of her head on medication, left her bare ass facing the window—and they’ll feel sorry for me. That works for me.

Here in the hospital I’m becoming sort of a nudist. I’m not usually like that. Well, when it comes to things pussy-related I guess I am. But not when it comes to my ass.

I just lie here and, because any motion hurts my ass so bad, I don’t even bother to cover myself. Anyone who comes in sees my gaping flesh wound and a bit of my peach. You get used to it quickly. Nothing is embarrassing anymore. I’m an ass patient. Anyone can see that, and I behave accordingly.

The reason I have such a healthy attitude about my pussy while I’m normally so uptight about my ass is that the way my mother raised me made it difficult for me to crap. When I was a little girl she told me all the time that she never went to the bathroom. And never farted. She held everything inside until it disintegrated. No wonder I had trouble.

As a result of being told all of this, I get totally ashamed if someone hears or smells me going to the bathroom. In public toilets, even if I’m just pissing and a fart escapes when I loosen the muscles down there, I’ll do anything to avoid
the person in the next stall being able to put a face to the noise. I’m the same way with the smell of my crap. When people are coming and going in the stalls around me and I’ve stunk the place up, I’ll wait in my stall until there are no more witnesses around. Only then will I come out.

As if crapping is a crime. My schoolmates always laugh at me for my exaggerated sense of shame.

I also don’t like to get dressed in my room at home. There are posters everywhere of my favorite bands. They’re always looking right into the camera for the photos, so it feels as if they are following my every move with their eyes. So if I’m changing in my room and they could get a peek at my pussy or tits, I hide behind my couch. Though around real boys and men I don’t care.

Someone knocks. Peter walks in. He places the pizza on the metal nightstand and puts the two bottles of beer down—a little too loudly—next to it. It all just barely fits.

He looks me in the eye the whole time. I stare back. I’m good at that. I think he likes taking care of someone roughly the same age as he is. It’s nice for him.

“You want one of the beers?”

“That’s nice of you, but I’m working. If I walk around here with beer breath there’ll be hell to pay.”

I hate being told no. I should have been able to figure out that he’s not allowed to drink on the job. Embarrassing. This is a hospital, Helen, not a bordello.

His gaze starts to wander. Is he looking out the window? Past me? Wait, no, he must be looking at my peach reflected in the window. His nightshift is starting off well. I like Peter.

“Okay, thanks. I guess I’ll eat.”

He leaves. I open up the pizza box and look at it. I wonder how I’ll be able to eat it without any utensils. The Marinara guys haven’t even cut the crust with a pizza roller. Should I rip bites out of it like an animal? Suddenly Peter walks back in. With silverware. And walks back out grinning. And then comes in again. What now? In his hand is a plastic baggie with a piece of tape on it. There’s something written on the tape.

“It says here I’m supposed to give this to you. Something to do with the operation. Do you know anything about it? Did they find something on you and need to return it?”

“I wanted to see the wedge of skin after they cut it out of me. I couldn’t let something be cut out of me while I was unconscious and then not see it before it was tossed in the garbage.”

“Speaking of garbage, it’s my job to ensure this baggie and its contents are properly disposed of in the special medical-waste bin.”

He takes his duties very seriously. He speaks in such a highbrow manner about them. He could have just said he had to make sure the stuff got thrown out instead of “properly
disposed of.” It would make him seem more human and less like a robot repeating orders. He hands me the baggie but doesn’t leave. But I’m only going to open it when I’m alone. I hold the baggie in my hands and stare at Peter until he finally leaves. My pizza is getting cold. But this is more important—and besides, I’ve heard real gourmets don’t eat things really hot because it masks the flavors. Really hot soup tastes like nothing at all. It must be true of pizza, too. If you make something poorly, just serve it as hot as possible and nobody will notice it tastes bad because they’ll all have charred their taste buds. It’s true of the other extreme, too: cold. You drink nasty drinks—like tequila—as cold as possible so you can get them down.

The baggie is see-through, zipped shut. A little slide is all it takes to open it. Inside is another bag, smaller and white instead of see-through. I can feel the cut-out piece inside it. No more packaging. If I just pull it out it’ll make a mess here in the bed. I rip off the top of the pizza box. It’s easy. It’s perforated along the edge, probably for just such a situation. When you need something to put a bloody piece of flesh on. I put the cardboard box top in my lap beneath the baggie. Do I need rubber gloves to pull this thing out? No. It’s from my own body. So I can’t catch anything, no matter how bloody it is. I touch what used to surround this clump of flesh—my gaping wound—all day long without gloves. Okay. So out it comes. It feels like liver or something else
from the butcher shop. I lay out all the pieces on the cardboard. I’m disappointed. Lots of little pieces. No wedge. Notz’s description made it sound as if it would be a thin, oblong piece of flesh that would look like the venison filets mom makes when we have guests in the fall and winter. Dark red and slick before being roasted, kind of shiny, like liver. But this here is goulash. Little pieces. Some pieces have yellow spots—the infection, no doubt—that look the way freezer burn does in commercials. They didn’t cut it out in one motion, not all together in one single piece. Of course, I’m no dead deer, but a living girl. Perhaps it’s better that they took care of it in small increments. And paid attention to the sphincter. Rather than carving out a magnificent anal filet just for the sake of a good presentation. Relax, Helen. Things are always different than you anticipate. At least you tried to picture something, imagined the smallest details, asked questions to try to verify things—and now you know more as a result. I learned that from dad. To try to figure things out so thoroughly it makes you puke. Anyway, I’m happy to have seen the pieces before they’re cremated along with the other medical waste. I don’t repack the pieces into the baggie. I just put the baggie on top of them and push it down so it sticks to them. I put the box top with the pieces of flesh and baggie on it on the metal nightstand. My fingers are covered with blood and goop. Wipe them on the bed? That would make a real mess. Not on my tree-top-angel
outfit, either. Same mess. Hmm. Well. It is all stuff from my own body. Even if it’s infected. I lick my fingers off one at a time. I’m always proud of myself when I come up with an idea like that. It’s better than sitting helplessly in bed and hoping somebody happens by with wet wipes. Why should I be disgusted by my own blood and pus? I’m not squeamish about infections. When I pop pimples and get pus on my finger, I happily eat that. And when I squeeze a blackhead and the translucent little worm with the black head comes out, I wipe that up with a finger and then lick it off. When the sandman leaves puslike crumbs in the corners of my eyes, I eat them in the morning, too. And when I have scabs on a cut, I always pick off the top layer in order to eat it.