Last summer, as Rachel’s year as a fourth grader careened to a halt, I wanted to tackle a problem that has persisted since the strokes occurred in 2011: potty training on a more regular basis here at home.
In an ideal world, we would be able to pop her onto the loo in the bathroom, right? But our house – in particular, the bathroom – does not lend itself to an easy process, one that gets us back to little girls’ underpants. You see, our bathroom is the size of a coffin – I’m dead serious. You can read my blog post about my house here.
What’s so frustrating is that she was potty trained just before the strokes hit. I was so proud of her, and I can remember buying the Dora the Explorer underwear, even washing it, folding it, and putting it away.
Ahhh, no more diapers, I thought back in early 2011.
Well, you know the rest of this story: the big-bad strokes hit thanks to E.Coli, and all those pairs of panties got tossed into the trash by October of that year.
She’s four and a half, and she’s back to diapers? Shit.
I confess, potty training was something I put off. I justified some of this with the notion that I was busy doing everything else: therapy, work, household chores, doctor’s appointments, grading.
Why does it feel like I do everything here? You don’t, Melissa.
I felt a strange mixture of guilt and relief(!) that the staff at Shirley Hills assisted Rachel with potty training at school. Not only did they acquire a changing table that helped with diapering, but they also worked with the occupational therapist and got a potty chair that rolled right up and above the toilet.
This arrangement was in place for the last few years, and yet, we’re still ordering diapers.
She’s going to be in 5th grade next fall. Really? Can’t we do SOMETHING about potty training?
On May 25th, I wrote a plea on Facebook for ideas on how to acquire a commode. I was ready to try a small one that light, transportable, and fit in her bedroom. I learned that they sell them on Walgreens website, sure. But when I read that our hometown’s Gillespie Center – a vibrant place for senior citizens – might have commodes for free, I moved in quickly to see their supply.
A kind, mild-mannered lady at the front desk directed me to the basement’s supply closet. Once there, I found exactly what I needed. And it was free.
OK, let’s see if we can get her back into underwear sooner rather than later.
Whenever we brought the topic up with her rehab doc, he always stressed to continue all efforts in this arena. On days when my strength to see the future was bleak, I know I’ve asked Dr. Gormley, “Can she relearn how to use a toilet once again?” And without fail, he always offered a positive outcome for potty success.
So, the next day, after cleaning up the commode and ridding it of cobwebs and dust, I started the Return to Potty Training Movement in Earnest.
For the first four months, it was highly successful in terms of Number One. You know, tinkle? I tried to create a routine of potty times: once right outta bed, once in the afternoon if not too busy, once at night.
And when I put her onto the throne, I could not distract her much. In fact, I avoided eye contact, looking down at my feet, waiting for the right sound.
Now maybe this is too much info, but the receiving bucket made a low rumbling sound whenever “the rains” hit. It was and still is music to my ears. And what’s more, if I hadn’t put in my hearing aid, I could still hear her successful attempt.
When I hear that gorgeous sound, I’ll look directly into Rachel’s eyes, wiggle all my fingers, and say something like, “Make it rain pee, Rachel! Make it raaaaaiiin!”
In mid-July, Rachel headed to summer school, just like she has for the last four years. This time, she went to Grandview Middle School. Her special ed teacher, Ali LaLonde, advocated for a new bathroom designed for Rachel in mind, adding a changing table and rolling commode, just like they had at Shirley Hills Elementary.
The summer school schedule included potty training each day, and as such, successes continued. But only with the liquid form.
Sometime in August, Rachel finally produced the smallest poop on the commode. It was the size of a small twig of a tree branch. It didn’t even smell bad. But that didn’t stop us from getting excited over said twiggy turd, and it strengthened our hopes for future movements of Rachel’s bowels.
Let’s remember this too: Since Rachel sits in a wheelchair for the majority of the day, constipation is a frequently visited station of our lives: Miralax to the rescue.
(Now, if you’re eating a meal or snack while reading this, you might want to finish eating and come back to this part of the story…OK, good. Thanks. And you’re welcome!)
Bedtime for Rachel is a shared duty, and Tuesdays are my nights. On September 26, I rolled her into her bedroom, laid her on her bed, pulled down her pants and stripped off her diaper. The commode was to my right, and with my well-worn muscle and might, I transitioned her to the throne.
I glanced down at my feet, waiting. Suddenly, something told me to look up. I saw Rachel, completely tensed up. She was doing….Something Different. Her face was red-and-white splotchy.
Could she be doing what I think she’s doing?
She stayed in this tight position for a few minutes. I waited for her to give me a cue.
“All done.”
“Rachel, did you poop on the potty? I smell something stinky. Did you…poop?”
“Yeah, yeah….”
I swung her spastic right arm over my left shoulder, all while guiding her left hand onto my right shoulder. On the count of three, I lifted her off the commode and onto her bed. Her face returned to a normal color as I lowered her onto her bed.
I peered into the commode. Rachel had deposited a BM that was the largest I’d ever seen. I mean, it was the size of an eggplant, about two and a half feet long and two inches thick. I’m serious, it was big!
At this precise time, I’m elated, happy, and congratulating Rachel!
I want her to remember how it FEELS to put poop into the potty, where it belongs.
“Doesn’t that feel GOOD?” She nodded her head, smiling and tired. (Such work!)
At this precise time, Jim is playing a video game. If you know a gamer, the rule is leave them alone. Don’t bother them with petty poop preguntas. Really.
At this precise time, I’m in a quandary: This poop is so big. Do I still put it in the toilet? Oh, I’m being so silly. Of course, that’s where it should go, right? I mean, really, this thing will disintegrate once I put it there, right?
I hold off on disposal until I get Rachel in jammies. I also hope that Jim will wrap up gaming so I can consult with him about this. Fifteen minutes later, Rachel is ready for a bedtime story, but Jim is still gaming feverously.
By now, the room is filled with the odor of Rachel’s potty success.
This is ridiculous. I’m going to slide this thing into the toilet, wait a little bit, and flush.
I wrap up the bedtime ritual, walk into the bathroom, and push the lever down. The water starts circling, and I anticipate that wonderful sound that comes with a successful flush. To me, it sounds like a bowling ball hitting the pins for a strike.
But, that’s not what happens. Nope.
Instead, I watch the water slow down, and the toilet gags in protest.
Oh shit.
At this precise time, I now have to interrupt the Gamer and summon him to the throne. Talk about two strikes. With a click of a button on his console, he becomes a plumber.
Once Jim sees the trouble we’re in, the profanities light up the bathroom, fouling up the air with its own stink. “If it was that big, why didn’t you put it into plastic bag and put it into the trash!?”
“I don’t know, I just thought it would break into chunks as the wat…”
“Never mind. Just go!”
Rachel hears this, and she begins to cry. I lay down with her, consoling her tears while Jim pours in boiling water every ten minutes. Sometimes it would be quiet, a toilet flush attempt, and then “Son of a bitch.”
After the right amount of hot water, Jim-the-plumber achieved a movement success of his own, and I heard the sound of the toilet, working properly…”GOT IT,” he proclaimed.
I cupped Rachel’s face, and I told her that daddy fixed it. In that moment, she wanted to thank daddy somehow, so she opened her mouth and said, “Best Buy?”
I laughed. “Nah, not tonight. But Daddy did do a good thing, right? OK, time for bed, Rach.”
While haven’t had another BM since that event, it’s my hope that she’ll continue in her potty prowess. It’s all a part of her movement in recovery.