Praying for Poop

Sometimes, in the midst of utter chaos and devastation, you find moments of lightheartedness. Early last night, I poked my head into my parents' room. My dad was in the bathroom; Mom hovered nearby, in case Dad needed help.

Me: How's it going?
Mom: All right.
Me: Has he done anything?
Dad: A little. About an inch.
Me: Great! I'd love to have that poop party tomorrow, Dad.
Dad: Me, too.
Me: Okay, well I heard movement [from the walker] from downstairs, so I came up to check.
Dad: Ha. Movement.
Me: You got that, eh? I bet you didn't know I was that funny.

My dad claims that he hasn't had a bowel movement in just about a week, and now every dinner table conversation we have revolves around defecation. I find this fact especially interesting considering any talk of feces at the dinner table when we were kids was verboten. And now, here we sit, cracking jokes left and right.

Just so you know, we've tried fresh fruit, scads of prunes, Colase, Miralax, and glycerin suppositories. But the man is on so many medications, and his ability to move is limited. Constipation, quite frankly, is not surprising. But if he doesn't have a bowel movement by tomorrow at noon, we're to call the doctor. And if he does move those bowels? Well, I'm throwing that poop party. So in the meantime, we're praying for poop.