The RM

In this case, I'm referring the the concept of the "Random Memory". I have these rather often. Out of the blue, I'll remember something that the file folders in my brain held onto over the years and decided to spew out without notice. I've always thought "hey, I should write that down" but I never do, so now I'm going to blog them. And so I bring you the story I like to call The Sack of Love.

It was fall of the year 2000. I was in college at Snow and one of my closest friends from childhood had also come to Snow. We'll call her Angie (name has been changed). One evening, Angie's roommate called me at home (still lived with the 'rents at the time) and said there was something terribly wrong and I had to come right away. Sensing something serious, I told my mom and dad and we all jumped in dad's car to drive to Angie's apartment.

I walked into Angie's room and saw her writhing on the floor in pain. Bad . . . really bad. She told us she was having excruciating pain in her abdomen. Then, trying to downplay the situation, she said "oh, it's not that bad" and tried to stand up. She let out a shriek and was back on the floor in less than a second. Again, bad . . . really bad.

My dad picked her up, put her in the car and we drove her to the hospital 30 minutes away. For some reason, I also remember that another of Angie's roommates had a radio show on the college radio station and her show was on during our drive. She was playing the Spice Girls. Not an integral part of the story, but hey, it's my memory and I'll remember whatever I want.

We get to the hospital in Gunnison and Dr. Inoye (selling?) was working in the ER that night. For those of you not from Sanpete County, Dr. Inoye is an extremely intelligent and efficient physician, but his bedside manner is, well, crappy. Smiles from Dr. Inoye? Not so much.

So we get her checked in, my mom called her parents, etc. They did an X-ray of her abdomen and we waited a while. She was all in her gown and everything and, as was customary for Angie and I, we were keeping things light and not serious even though we felt like something was really wrong. They were talking about her appendix, spleen, cysts, performing ultrasounds, MRI's, all kinds of stuff.

Eventually, Dr. Inoye comes back . . . with a smile. Wha??? We're waiting intentfully for the dire news, when he explains, while trying desperately to keep a strait face and stifle his laughter, that Angie is just constipated. He even showed us the evidence on the X-ray. Never knew poop would show up on one of those. CONSTIPATED?!?!?! Are you freaking kidding me? All this hullabaloo for a bowel movement? We all burst into laughter. Well, all except Angie who was still in a great deal of pain.

The doctor explained that the only way to relieve her symptoms is for her to go, if you know what I mean. So the nurse wheels in one of those attractive portable thrones and proceeds to set up for a "procedure". Angie is asking what's going on and the nurse explains she will be giving Angie and enema. To which Angie responds "Oh, no, honey. I'm sure you don't get paid enough to have to stick that thing where it needs to go. Why don't you take a little break. My friend, Emily, will help me out with that." WHAT?!?!?! I thought she was joking. She wasn't.

We proceed into the restroom (she also didn't want to do it in the porta-john), which luckily are good sized in hospitals. Angie is holding whatever it is that gets inserted, and I'm holding a ginormous bag of saline which is attached to what she's holding. The nurse showed me the line on the bag where it should be emptied to before we were finished. Gee, thanks. The doctor is hanging around outside the door, I'm sure wondering just what kind of close "friendship" we had going on.

As the "procedure" progressed, I was, as mentioned before, holding the saline sack. There were various noises coming from a number of Angie's orifices and we both could not contain our laughter. Apparently, whenever I laughed, I would inadvertently squeeze the sack, which would make Angie squeal, which would make me laugh, which would make me squeeze the bag some more, which would make Angie scream, and so forth. Seriously, it was freaking hilarious. I wished there had been two potties in the restroom because I nearly peed my pants laughing so hard.

Suffice it to say, the "procedure" did what it was meant to do, my mom and dad took care of the paperwork, Angie stuffed her pride in her "personal belongings" bag, I had a great story to share, and we made it home.

And that, my friends, is the Sack of Love story. Because, had I not loved Angie enough, I never would have been in the bathroom with her holding the enema saline sack.

Have you ever gone above and beyond (or below and beyond, as the case may be) for a friend?