My shitty day

& a cheap pun

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Parenthood is the strangest gift.

I pooped my pants one sunny day in Arlington Cemetery.

It was no shart, nor was it a poop befitting the scene. There was no late-night ghost tour and no one jumped out from behind a gravestone, yelling Boo!

I was 25 and with my parents.

It was a beautiful, bright weekend day at around lunchtime. I know this because I remember we headed to the cemetery after lunch at Le Pain Quotidien.

I also know it was early Fall, because I remember calling my boyfriend (now husband) from my hiding place and thinking about how this turn of events might phase someone less fitting for me, so early on in our courtship. We’d started dating in August.

I was wearing loose jeans (a tragedy) and a light pink (another tragedy) oversized sweatshirt. (I’m a woman of comfort — something that has gotten me into more uncomfortable situations than I care to count.)

The sweatshirt’s oversized quality comes from its length — draping over my bum. It’s roomy enough to be cozy and casual up top, and then just a little tight around the seat. I love this about my pink sweatshirt because it doesn’t let lots of air in despite its otherwise relaxed fit. It sort of self-seals at the butt, bumping up the cozy factor by not letting lots of air in.

At this time in my life, I’d been experiencing debilitating stomach pain that sent me rushing to the emergency room once and to the bathroom stall at work more often.

In an effort to heal my severe eczema, I’d committed myself wholly to a Whole30-esque diet. For the first time in my life, after months on this diet, my eczema cleared for several weeks — without steroid cream! It was a true miracle to experience so many consecutive pain-free, itch-free days and restful nights. 

An unexpected side effect was the stomach pain that started a few weeks into my skin’s recovery. (For what it’s worth, I don’t blame this on Whole30. I was a lazy cook and took a mostly raw-diet approach to the meal plan. Turns out my constitution / my stomach lining is not well-suited to a raw diet…)

It got to the point where I’d eat a single bite of food — any food — and double over almost immediately, writhing in pain. It was torturous. I saw several health professionals who all told me my tests looked normal, and an endoscopy revealed nothing but the degree to which my health insurance was lacking.

So I was left to find some means of healing on my own. A journey I’m familiar with.

On this day in 2018, my stomach felt good. It had been several weeks (if not months) since any debilitating pain. I felt so good, in fact, that I ordered a salad for lunch, not thinking or remembering that mostly raw meals could still trigger acute pain.

Shortly after lunch the pain started.

And shortly after walking into Arlington Cemetery thereafter, my body demanded to rid itself of this careless mistake.

We walked up Memorial Avenue through a buzzing crowd — weaving through droves of scooters and dozens of families.

We walked by the Welcome Center and a long restroom line. I told myself I didn’t need to use it anyway, so we continued along.

By the time I admit to myself I’m in an acute situation, the nearest restroom was no longer at the Welcome Center (we are nothing if not enthusiastic walkers), but — I hope — a few hundred feet ahead, at Fort Myer — the military Joint Base neighboring the cemetery.

My father is ex-military and always carries his ID, so I gripped his hand — I wouldn’t grip a hand this tightly again until birthing my son 5 years later — and we beelined to the Fort Myer gate with such a furtive energy that it no doubt drew eyes. 

All I remember was telling my dad something like It’s happening and him gripping my hand back and saying It’s ok. And me replying something like It’s not ok.

It did happen. Before we reached the gates to the base. (Think Bridesmaids shitting in the street scene, but I’m holding my dad’s hand and dripping on sweet John & Jackie, wondering if fertile ground is the biggest of their concerns.)

My parents visiting me ~a year after the incident. No emergency restroom stops during this visit!

As my dad shows the guard his ID, I hide my face and stare at my ankle — no doubt directing the guard’s gaze there, as well — where I see poop.

Despite the unfortunate fact that the poop had dripped down my legs under my loose jeans, down my ankles, and onto my shoes, I count my blessings. I was grateful to have on black jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, hoping that maybe the guard didn’t notice my poopy ankles. 

This was a false peace of mind. Had I known the truth, it would have put me over the edge.

The poop was so much and so forceful that it had seeped through the butt of my thick jeans to be warmly embraced by the snug seal of my sweater, where it made its way through the baby pink fabric, leaving a large, poop-colored stain to cover my backside.

And so it was like this that I waddled across a parking lot, hid behind a chapel while my dad ran in search of a restroom, and called my boyfriend who started laughing. 

I hung up, my dad had found a restroom, my mom caught up to us, and my parents ushered me back across a parking lot, past another guard at a desk, and into a small restroom with two tight stalls. 

We all got to work. I had the task of swallowing my tears long enough to peel off my pants and sweatshirt. My mother had the worse task of receiving them over the bathroom stall door. And my father was off buying me tax-free oversized Hanes granny panties, Nike shorts, and a t-shirt from the Exchange.

Years later, when my parents still lived in the D.C. suburbs, they’d sometimes send me a picture or a video if they were in the area. In one video, they’re doing a slow drive-by the entrance to the bathroom building and giggling like two little kids: Miriam! We’re thinking of you! Hopefully you have a less eventful day today than you did last time you were here!! HAHAHA!!! — or something of that variety.

I still wear the Hanes underwear and I still wear the pink sweater. They’ve become unexpected, welcome reminders of how loved I am — that bum seal like a warm hug from my parents while we all laugh at our now-public joke.

At the time, I remember thinking, I can’t believe mom is washing my poopy jeans in a public restroom for me like this.

And now, all I hope with all my heart is that if my baby ever needs his poopy jeans washed out in a public restroom, I’ll be there to do it.

That would be a gift — a silver lining to the tragedy of pooping oneself in public.

And I truly cannot believe it is so, but there you have it.