WARNING: This is NOT a post for the weak-stomached. Non-carers may wish to back away now.
So, Sunday morning, there I was all dressed up for church, and then there I was, with the elderly contents of a suction pump cascading down my back and into my pants.
I thought I'd reached a new low. There's something about cold bodily fluids, so much more unpleasant than ones still at body temperature. Reach round into a wheelchair to straighten a child's hips and come up with a hand coated in poo? Annoying (where are those spare wheelchair covers?), but not too gross. That squidgy warm sensation when you realise the child on your lap has just overflowed their pad? Ho hum. Even the great tidal vomit of 2004* was somehow less disgusting in its freshness.
Stale suctionings were, I thought, a new low point. Until today. I emptied the nappy bin. The liner in the bin split as I was emptying it, and somehow, a used anal catheter leapt out of the bin and hit me in the face.
So my question for today is, which would you rather?
My supplemental question would be, anyone want to come and look after the girls whilst I go on holiday somewhere far, far away from here, with endless hot water and expensively luxuriant bath foam?
*The Great Tidal Vomit.
Long ago, when Mog was just a little wee thing, she used to sit on a Tumbleform on our kitchen table. Wedged between the wall and the 'fridge, she was beautifully safe, and perfectly placed to join in with our mealtimes. Goldie used to sit facing her, and I'd sit between them, where I could slow Goldie's eating down and try yet again to wedge another teaspoon of mush between Mog's reluctant lips.
We had savoury rice one night. Mince, rice, cheese, veg. Nicely prepared, deliciously scented, reasonably mashable, and apparently good enough that Goldie wanted two big bowls of it. Possibly a touch over seasoned; at any rate Goldie was also extremely thirsty and had a couple of drinks too.
Meal over, I pushed Goldie away from the table to reach around her and wipe up the debris. It was at this point which Goldie opened her mouth and poured forth not just two helpings of savoury rice, but also her lunch, and even the Weetabix, toast and poop goop she'd had for breakfast that morning. Together with all the drinks she'd had for the past 24 hours. With impressive velocity, she managed to hit the opposite wall. With remarkable spreading capacity, she managed to coat myself, the table, the floor, and the 'fridge. Oh, and herself too.
Mog, showing early promise for the daintily elegant child she would grow into, sat quietly beautiful, Piedro-booted feet tap dancing gently in the ocean of vomit, the rest of her totally untouched and apparently unaware and above such things.
Where do you start? Dripping with vomit, I stripped myself off rather than spread it further. I then stripped Goldie, and used the cleaner bits of her and my clothing to do an initial mop up. Depositing Goldie on the shower trolley, I hosed her down, mopped the floor and finished sorting the cupboards, and then, shivering, opened my bedroom door to find myself some clean clothes. I flung the door open and walked into my room. Heading for the wardrobe, I approached my large, ground floor, window. And realised that much of the population of two local secondary schools was walking down the road, staring back in at me. Dropping to the floor, I commando-crawled across the carpet, reached up towards my wardrobe and blindly tugged at whatever I could reach, throwing it on ducked down under the window and then attempting to gather what little dignity I had left and walking out of my room without a backwards glance.
I bought net curtains the next day.