I Broke My Ass #2

"Time is a stretch of nerve fibers." - Albert Einstein

Six weeks ago I wrote part one of this story. Since then I've been disrupted by what is called a “flare up” in the chronic illness community.

Much like a natural disaster, a flare up comes on suddenly and for no particular reason. Your life's turned upside down. Your pockets emptied out and thoughts of the past and future out the window as the blood rushes to your head. Pain pins you to the moment. Time is a tool that is no longer relevant.

I spend a lot of time during these flare ups listening to Ram Dass lectures on repeat in the dark.

His experience with a life altering stroke, his humor and east coast affect comfort me.

Soundbytes remain in my mind today as I come out of a six week period of hospital visits and physical agony:

“Consciousness doesn’t exist in time.”

“A safe space means that I have no agenda.”

“Suffering brings us closer to God.”

My version of God is the present moment. He’s not wrong about that last one.

Having an invisible health condition means that people don’t believe you. Friends, family and most of all doctors. They don’t believe you because mostly it's unbelievable.

No where were we.

Ah yes, I was in the middle of getting my first and last colonic…

Day 1,313 of broken ass. Weather; Sunny 75 degrees. Altadena, CA 2:15 PM

I was on the table. I was on the table with a tube up my ass. I was on the table with a tube up my ass in a converted laundry room of a family’s home in a suburb of Los Angeles.

The technician tinkered with some knobs on a machine that looked like it had been smuggled out of the USSR, or more specifically….like a prop remake of a machine smuggled out of the USSR.

“You’ll start to feel some pressure as the water begins to flow.”

The technician’s name is Mary. Part Plejaren or Reptilian. Not sure. I’m not yet an expert on the different species of aliens, but very well versed in the personality types of rogue medical providers in California. Either way she was glowing in a way that made me uneasy.

In order to calm my nervous system, I landed on playing a game. The “How Did I Get Here” game. This is a grounding technique for when you forget how you got somewhere.

I took a Lyft here. I remember reading “Power Colonics” on the destination of the driver's GPS and feeling nothing. I thought how this may have caused some embarrassment to others, and felt proud that the loss of all my dignity has left me not afraid to die.

I recall arriving at Mary's residential Tudor home and thinking, “Oh Jesus,” as a middle aged man walked out of her front door,: jolly and excited to go to the gym vibe. Right behind, was Mary calling me over.

Did she just put a tube up his ass? He seemed so nonchalant.

I stepped out of the nauseating late afternoon light and into her dark living room and tried to make out the environment. Marble statues of owls, a fireplace, clocks. Oh boy.

I was promptly handed a pamphlet entitled “Is My Body a Toxic Dump?” with the words “PLEASE DON’T TAKE" written with a blue ball-point pen. Scotch tape held the folds together.

I recall a man entering the room shirtless in sweat-shorts. We eye-contacted, to which he replied, “Oops!” and scurried out. Was this her husband trying to get a sandwich?

This grounding game I was playing wasn’t working.

I come back to now. I’m on the table. I'm on the table with a tube up my ass.

She’s holding a pendulum over my stomach. A pendulum is a tool mystics use to see which way the earth wants you to go. Usually it's used to make a choice between two things. What could she possibly be calling in or relying on this tactic to decide?

The pressure is indeed increasing inside of my body.

Vague memories drift in my mind of her showing me a sort of choreography on how to lie down, receive tube and roll rover. She was so nimble for her age.

I had walked through a bedroom to get here. Did people sleep in here?

With chronic pain and illness I will say I have been visited by the spirit world during fits of physical hell and also in moments of healing inside various drab practitioners offices. Ancestors or angels if you will. I think there's something about not being able to contact your center easily that calls for higher help. All to say I’m not adverse to spiritual modalities in a healing appointment, but she had a tube up my ass and she was pumping me full of water.

“I’m passing out.” I say. (This is something I say when I’m passing out.)

“No you’re not.” Mary said.

I’m used to gaslighting by practitioners but this was a new one.

“Yes I am.”

“You’ve been on the table for ten minutes. It’s not possible.”

Oh Mary, Mary, Mary. At this point I feel that shift happening. Where I leave the physical plane and surrender to whatever is calling me. A warm calm peace came over my physical form.

“You have a tube up my ass that’s pumping me full of water. I don’t think there are any rules here.”

“It’s barely started…Do you know how this works?” Mary asked.

“Oh Mary,” I thought, smiling as I lost consciousness.

Lights out. Sayonara. Samsara.

Time was lost here. But as earlier mentioned, consciousness doesn’t exist in time. While I was in a dream world, I recalled a chiropractor suggesting to do at home enemas to clear out my ass. She also suggested that I pray to the angels that guard my asshole beforehand. It felt relevant.

String Quartet #3 played in my body as I came to. I was now sitting up. Mary was two inches from my face, screaming my name. So much for angels and the holy angels of asshole protection.

“HEATHER! “ “HEATHER!” “ HEATHER!”

She had some sort of essential oil under my nose. Lol, those aren’t smelling salts.

“ARE YOU ON DRUGS?!” I started to feel like she might give me a medical slapping across the face. Clearly there are no rules here.

What year is it? Am I in a D.A.R.E. commercial? Is Mary the angel or the enemy?

“No.” I retorted. I can feel I was smiling, because I'm no longer afraid to die and this was undeniably great material.

The tube was no longer up my ass but the water was.

I was sans-pants and sweating as she Weekend and Bernies'ed* me over to her toilet.

“You sure you want to stop the procedure? You are going to pay $250 for 10 minutes.”

Capitalism at its finest.

I rejoice at my bare ass hitting the porcelain altar.

She yammered on about diet protocols and books to read to cure my situation.

“Yeah, I’ve read Dr. Sarno,” were the first words I muttered since the table.

At that exact moment I fart with such a violence. A water full of release out of my ass.

She leaned on the entryway of the bathroom all too comfortably.

“You have?”

I must’ve disturbed her statute with the book comment. There’s something so unnerving about someone recommending you a book about the mind body connection. It’s like trust me, I’m aware.

Buckets. Sweating, I rip my shirt off.

Her eyes now wide and I, laughing. Yes, laughing I was aloud. Why I don’t know. perhaps at the absurdity of the moment or maybe simply rejoice of shitting for the first time in 15 days.

The pain to my stomach comes back like a tidal wave. A quick turn back to agony. A quick turn now to crying. Chris Bayes, the renowned clown teacher describes this emotional experience as a spectrum. The laugh can turn to a cry and cry to laugh at the turn of a dime. This is also a symptom of a spiritual awakening, crying while laughing.

The bowel was really moving now. Mary had moved on to a speech about trampolines? What the fuck was she talking about.

The voice in my ass reminding me just to be here now. On the causal plane, I was 40 minutes into the diarrhea session.……I now see my hand reaching out. Was my hand reaching out to Mary? Who was making that decision to reach out to the enemy?

“What books of Sarno’s did you read?” Mary asked. A chess move in a psychological game I don’t play.

I slump over, fully naked now with my hand shaking and suspended in space.

Mary reluctantly let me take hold of her hand.

A beat can be felt now, in the odd bathroom, sun stretching in through stained glass windows.

“A lot is coming out.” She said.

“Yeah.”

She held my hand as my body purged the last of the water and waste. Water out the ass is water under the bridge and just as suddenly as the tide began is rolled out. Relief set it.

I got dressed and handed her the requested cash only payment.

“Well I don’t think you’ll be coming back, but it was nice to meet you.”

She had made my decision for me, which felt about right. She put her arms out for a hug for which I received.

I sat on her front lawn furniture as the sun set over the San Gabriel Mountains. Colors were brighter than before, the pain in my body less than when I arrived. As I waited for my Lyft back home I reflected on how many red flags I overcame to get here. Receiving a Snoopy Gif as a confirmation text, a 1 star review saying “I believe this woman is on drugs please be careful”, and an in-home colonic office setup in general. I thought I might tell this story one day, and people won’t believe it because….I agree that it’s pretty unbelievable.

Weekend and Bernies'ed * - Past tense of the scene from this 1989 film where the lead character is dead, but two people carry him around and prop him up to make him look alive.