Why Can't We Fart Out Loud in Public?

And the Stomach Saga

It started with a fart. Well, actually, it was a chocolate bar, a stomachache and then came the flatulence. I was surprised. I hadn’t farted in 7 years-- since I went gluten free (barring the incidental food poisoning or wolfing down a bowl of soup gulping air, the broth creating unwanted gas). I also abstained from processed sugar, corn, soy, dairy, alcohol, and caffeine. For 7 years! The lining of my stomach was as smooth as a baby’s butt. The chocolate bar was paleo—healthy by all accounts. But by the next day, post cacao, it didn’t matter what I ate. A gnawing stomach knot proceeded after every meal; salad=pain, salmon=pain, apple sauce=pain.

The colonoscopy and endoscopy were normal. “Just a little acid reflux,” said the GI doc. “The Prilosec or Pepsin will make you feel better.” I tried and they didn’t. I knew they wouldn’t because with Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis we have low acid, not normal or high. With low acid, the food sits there, expecting to be absorbed, waiting for the acid street-cleaners to brush by the curb sweeping the ground beef into oblivion. But it arrived late. Even with the 7-year itchy diet. I started to wonder if that NY steak from last summer was still in my lower intestine. Several months after the first butt burp, and no relief from medications, I decided to see an Integrative Doctor.

            My Telehealth appointment with Dr. M. was thorough. She ruled out SIBO and my various oscopies were normal. She checked my blood and didn’t like my lead and mercury levels.

“I grew up in the 70’s,” I sighed.

“Ah,” she said, “That explains it.”

Amalgam was the standard tooth filling and I had enough in my mouth to make a charm bracelet. I had started the process of removing the charms over the years with the final four gouged out thirteen months ago; pre stomach agony. Dr. M said the metals could still be in my system. I probably got a fungus that’s not healing because lead and mercury will glom onto it like a toddler to his mom being dropped off at his first day of preschool; it won’t let go or heal. That’s how I imagined it anyway. Screaming three-year-old (silver) and working mom (fungus). Maybe it’s the other way around. In any case, my gut was unhappy.

Meanwhile, at home, we had a window leak. But it wasn’t the window’s fault—hubby sprayed a hose at it for ten minutes. And the roof guy said the roof was solid-- we just needed to clean it. What a relief. I looked on Yelp for roof cleaner companies and was thrilled to see that they were abundant in the Pacific Northwest, and they all had stellar reviews. It was like trying to choose a Golden Retriever puppy from an award-winning litter. I went with the company who answered me on a Sunday with a quote. First come first hire.

            Roof Ninjas were scheduled. Although I had/have debilitating stomach complications, I was thrilled we had an easy alternative for cleaning debris rather than plunking down cash for a new section of roof. Not to mention the noise, the mess, the errant nails left around the yard for our dog or my bare feet to find, which would then mean an ER visit, another tetanus shot and a ridiculous copay. (I think ahead.)

            Dr. M was out of pocket. My pocket. No insurance coverage. But when you get to my age (yes, I just said that) you realize that doctors will pitch medications at you like they’re at batting practice. I’ve bunted and missed the ball completely. Rarely have I hit a home run. Four years ago, an anti-biotic given to me for a root canal then caused C-Diff. (I won’t reveal the details of C-Diff here because I thought I’d avoid the word “diarrhea” on this post. Farts. Ok. Diarrhea-- not yet.) Meanwhile, I had to take another anti biotic to get rid of it.

 Back to Dr. M. I needed a spreadsheet for all the supplements and the 1 medication I would take for 21 days to a month. The first week, I slept and pooped—random shapes, sizes and consistencies. I was as confused as my bowels. There was one afternoon I couldn’t believe how much excrement fell out of this mama’s behind. I actually stared at it for a minute. I called Hubby into the bathroom to show him.

            “That’s impressive,” he said.

            “That came out of me.”

            He nodded in amazement.

            I was this close to taking a picture and posting it on Instagram. My body was most definitely in detox mode.

       

Two roof cleaning dudes, A and B, arrived right after I had another huge dump. When I answered the door, I must have looked pale yet relieved.

            “I’m A, this is B. We should be finished this afternoon. If you don’t have any questions, we’ll get started.”

            Over the next hour lots of rubbish fell away from the house. It was raining moss, mud, twigs…

            “Wow, our roof and gutters really needed a good cleaning,” I thought, “kinda like its homeowner.”

            When A and B were finished, they used their leaf blowers and our hose to wash away all the detritus that accumulated on the deck and driveway. I wished it was that easy for me.

            Just as I was about to sit on the toilet, again, they rang the bell to announce their completion.

            “Crap. Guess I’ll hold it in,” I said. (Yes, I talk to myself, especially when appalled.) As I pulled up my sweatpants, I yelled, “Coming.”

            I opened the door fast, ready to sign on the dotted line so I could get back to the bathroom. “Okay,” I said, as I leaned against the door frame clenching every muscle from glutes to jaw.

            “We’re all done. Cleaned your sky lights too.”

            My head was shaking now. An autonomic response?

            At that point, I really needed to let one fly, but I held it in. And then I thought, “Screw it, I’m almost 60, I should fart loud and proud, give these kids something to laugh about, or have nightmares. And besides, why should I care? I am woman hear me--”

            “Lots of moss in the back part of your roof.”

            Now, they wanted to chat.

            I gritted my teeth and said, “Moss, grime, oozing crap.”

            “Probably from the shade,” B spewed.

            “I know about shade,” I said with a fake smile, thinking about that clothed, shaded part of my body that needed immediate exposure. If he said the word, “mud,” that would have been the secret password to my anal release. For now, I could feel the flatulence building.

I have a huge appreciation for farts. They feel good to the person releasing it and at the same time can be indicative of a) you ate something poisonous b) it’s the body’s alert system letting you know a poop is next, or, c) you can clear a room if necessary.

When I was little, we learned the appropriate word which is, Flatus (pronounced flaaayy-tis). My father was a doctor, so all body parts and functions were normal at the dinner table. My dad easily let a flatus fly in the middle of a bite of spaghetti. And then he’d say, “What was that?” As if it was a prowler at the window. My sister’s and I would say, “Ew, daddy.” What’s ironic, is when I had to clear my nostrils he would say, “Don’t blow your nose at the table.”

As B rattled on about the Roof Ninjas cleaning subscription, I wondered what characteristics my flatus might have if I were to release it at that moment. One never knows the tone, the length, or the air quality of one’s fart before the great push. It’s like an earthquake. You can’t predict when or the damage in your underwear or the environment.

“You have a little bit of wood rot near the back corner gutter,” said B.

“Rot?” I said biting my lip holding back from saying, “I’ll tell you what’s rotting.”

What if I sharted? THAT would be embarrassing.

I remembered the first time I met my husband’s grandmother. White, thick wavy hair snipped above her shoulders. Her house gowns hemmed just above her slippers and as she sauntered down the hallway, with each step she’d release a round of ammunition. All the while, she couldn’t hear her own symphony.

It was a beautiful thing. Admirable.

It was then I began to wonder why we can’t we fart in front of strangers?

I decided against relaxing my butt cheeks and I’d wait until A and B were gone. When I’m eighty I might feel different.

“Thanks, guys,” I said. I slammed the door before the guys could turn towards their truck.

“Were they waiting for a tip?” I thought as I bolted to the bathroom.

My roof and gutters are clean, now for my gut.

Mom joke alert-- Looking for more “belly” laughs? Stay tuned.