The Poop Whisperer

Posted September 07, 2007

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^{Ever wonder what Catherine sounds like? Listen to her read this blog entry.}

I once held a friend's knee aloft for the two hours it took her to muscle out a baby. I whispered encouragement, groaned in sympathy, and shouted Hallelujah! to the heavens when that dark, cabbagey head forced its miraculous way into the air. I had practically out-midwifed the midwife! I could have coaxed a million dollars from a sealed vault.

And I was reminded of that evening years later, coaching baby Birdy while she labored to push out a stool the size and shape of Barney. Before then, the word "constipation" had evoked a condition I would have described as merely unpleasant. Afterwards I felt differently. Instead of conjuring up prunes or marathon readings of Shogun on the toilet or a vague abdominal heaviness, "constipation" would remind me of screaming agony and the physics of impossibility: a camel through the eye of a needle; a boulder through a marble chute; the state of Alaska through a tube of toothpaste. Like how I'd felt when I was pregnant and holding someone else's baby, taking discreet measurements of its head circumference while I pictured the miniature rosebud of my cervix. Birdy's constipation was like that. It was catastrophic. "Feed her lots of fresh fruits and vegetables!" our pediatrician offered into the phone, and I said simply, "I don't think you understand." Because that advice? It was like saying to my laboring friend, "You should get an IUD!" A fine suggestion, but it's really not going to get the baby out now, is it?

Which is how I feel tonight, reading about frozen peas. Which is what you're supposed to feed constipated goldfish. Which is what we have. Arthur, the late Charlie's soul mate, who is literally dying of constipation.

I know this because I Googled "fish swimming upside down." And I clicked onto various pages about doomed goldfish that have been fed poor diets (check) and are now trailing kite strings of poop behind them (check) and appear to have lost their sense of balance (check). And then I Googled "constipated goldfish" and landed on pet-care pages about feeding your goldfish peas and also -- because this is the postmodern meta world we live in -- blog pages about people who have Googled "constipated goldfish" and then landed on pet-care pages about feeding your goldfish peas. Online, the caretakers of constipated goldfish seem to share feelings of both irony and grief. Constipation is an often-fatal condition for a goldfish. We are already down one goldfish around here.

And it really is awful -- both because it's awful, and because the kids are watching how awful it is. We are clustered around the bowl, wringing our hands while Arthur sinks upside down and then falls into fits of shuddering. I try to remember that his eyes are always wide and unblinking, and that this is not a representation of his panic. I try not to think about the bulge of his midsection. I think about the kids, and what kind of teachable moment this might be. "I hope he doesn't die!" Birdy cries, and Ben, the soul of wisdom, says, "I hope he gets better. But if he isn't going to get better, then I hope he does die." I feel the exact same way. "Is he suffering too much?" I ask. "Should we help him die?" And everyone knows I mean more flushing than hemlock and shakes their heads no, not yet. "Should I reach in and pull out that poop we can see?" This gets a mixed response. Ben thinks I should; Michael thinks it will just make Arthur panic; Birdy thinks it sounds disgusting. I don't mention any of the suppository incidents from her babyhood.

It's the peas or nothing. I peel off their skins, chop them up, and shower them pessimistically into the bowl. Arthur is upside down and thrashing, stoppered up and exploding to death. The pea bits raining down around him really don't seem like the kind of palliative care he might be after. But what can we do? We promise to care for him for the rest of his life; we promise that if he gets better we won't take him for granted again; we promise to get him a new friend. "He was a good fish," Ben eulogizes and I quote Monty Python under my breath: Um, I'm not actually quite dead yet. Everyone has a stomachache, but the kids also have hope -- even as it alternates with their preemptive mourning. We turn the framed picture of them so that Arthur can see it and know that he's loved.

And maybe if it were me, I would stare at those bright, hopeful faces with my otherworldly, unblinking eyes and I would think to myself, "Gosh, I'm so stuffed, and I can't seem to stop shaking or dying, but maybe if I could just swim my bloated upside down self over to one of those pea shards, that would really hit the spot." I don't know. All I know is that in the morning, the peas are gone and the bowl is filled with green ribbons of poop. And Arthur is bright-eyed and right-side-up. The children shout their hallelujahs to the heavens, and he wags his tail, swims a triumphant loopety-loop for them, and -- if we could just imagine the proper cartoon ending here -- smiles.

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by Catherine Newman

Catherine Newman cooks for the family

Dalai Mama Dishes

Catherine Newman cooks for the family

The Poop Whisperer

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