The older people get, the more they think about prunes and the like. As my father remarked when I was there, "you don't realize what a nuisance and problem it can be when it does not happen."
The "it" is, of course, "shitting."
We take shitting for granted. It deserves a lot more respect.
Even a little deviation can mean trouble. Like, if you are traveling. As if the body knows that you are not home! "as many as 40 percent of people experience constipation while they’re away from home."
Why is it difficult to shit when on a vacation?
Traveling throws off one’s routine -- and constipation may be one result, said Dr. Brooke Gurland, a colorectal surgeon at the Cleveland Clinic. “We’re creatures of habit,” including when it comes to bowel movements, she said. “People have a time when they do that, and once we throw the schedule off, we can become completely disrupted.”Off the regular schedule means no "regular" ;)
Perhaps "home, sweet home" was first expressed when the person was ecstatic while shitting in one's own bathroom, after getting back to the "regular" schedule?
“Any time you leave your general habitat, it’s throwing your gut microflora off balance,” says Brooke Alpert, a New York-based registered dietician.Crap, those damn bacteria in the gut, again! ;)
The experience of a holiday trip—remembering to pack everything, navigating a crowded airport, staying with family for an extended period of time—may be enough to stop the bowels from functioning the way they usually do.It shouldn't take getting old in order to understand the importance of shitting--daily and regularly. Heck, even the poets and writers tried to tell us that; thanks to the friend for pointing me to the following by John Updike.
"The Beautiful Bowel Movement"
by John Updike
Though most of them aren’t much to write about—
mere squibs and nubs, like half-smoked pale cigars,
the tint and stink recalling Tuesday’s meal,
the texture loose and soon dissolved—this one,
struck off in solitude one afternoon
(that prairie stretch before the late light fails)
with no distinct sensation, sweet or pained,
of special inspiration or release,
was yet a masterpiece: a flawless coil,
unbroken, in the bowl, as if a potter
who worked in this most frail, least grateful clay
had set himself to shape a topaz vase.
O spiral perfection, not seashell nor
stardust, how can I keep you? With this poem.
|I took this photo in Kawakawa, New Zealand|