Mount Vesuvius

Just the other day I was thinking that for the past few months these blogs have been uber-serious…and I had begun to miss writing about the crazy Medina experiences. I even went so far as to think “nothing funny ever happens to us anymore.”

Well, I wouldn’t say today was particularly funny, but you may cringe and groan along with me as I relate what happened, and then laugh with a grateful heart that it did’t happen to you.

This morning began innocuously enough. Gideon had hopped in bed with me soon after Jeff hopped out to finish the night coughing alone on the couch. This is regular happenstance at our house…since I’m plugged into the wall at night, if Jeff is on the couch, then Gideon gets to stay because it’s just too much trouble for me to unplug everything and get him back to his own bed. I think the small sly one has figured that out because I only find him in bed with me on nights Jeff is out.

Anyway, Gideon was floppy fish and hogging my pillow as usual, so right at 7:00, I sent him out to find daddy so I could steal a few extra winks. 30 minutes later I woke up to clattering in the kitchen; everyone was up but me.

Background Information You Need to Know:

• Several days ago, I smelled a peculiar odor emitting funk from our kitchen sink, but I simply thought something hadn’t been ground up too well in the garbage disposal. I kept meaning to drop a lemon in to freshen in up, but I didn’t, and since the smell wasn’t too pungent, I forgot about it.
  
  
• Until I go to bed, I usually use the office bathroom, right near the kitchen. Last night I happened to notice, upon my last flush, that the toilet seemed sluggish.
  
  
• By now your mind has already jumped a few steps ahead to “uh oh, another potty story.” Bingo. A story from me wouldn’t be a real story if I didn’t include my constant companion.

After breakfast, we sent the older two to the bathroom. Apparently, Gideon used the office bathroom not realizing he had just awoken Mount Vesuvius.

I think I was in my bathroom curling Scarlett’s already curly hair when Jeff came running in spluttering and all kinds of upset.

“You’re going to have to get the children dressed for church because there’s toilet water everywhere and I’ve got to clean it up. There may be a pipe that’s busted.”

I was a little confused and didn’t understand exactly how that could be, but I was quickly distracted by Jeff running to the linen closet.

“Don’t use my good towels on the floor, please.”

“I’m not. Don’t you think I remember the last time you got mad at me for using your good towels to mop up water?”

I can’t remember my response, but I was so concerned that he’d use the good towels in his frantic haste, that I had to remind him (to his exasperation) several times and I probably got a little snitty about it.

I got the children ready for church, I went to see what Jeff was doing, and saw the watery mess. He kept running back for more towels, and I was getting a little worried that he was running out of the bad ones.

Again, I told him not to use my good ones.

Jeff threw the soiled ones into the washing machine, which happens to be in our kitchen, next to the office and started a cycle.

He took a quick shower, and when he got out, he remarked that it made sense for Satan to be attacking in such a way on Sunday morning, since he was scheduled to preach at church tonight.

Little did he know that was just the beginning.

Then it was my turn. It takes me awhile to shower because I have to try and guard my central line from getting wet, even though I tape it up. I was only about halfway through when Jeff came running back snapping that now poop was exploding everywhere, out of the toilet, out of the shower in that bathroom, onto the office carpet, and the washing machine was spilling water all over the kitchen floor.

Jeff had called our landlord to tell him what had happened (with the first burst), who had explained he couldn’t get anyone out until tomorrow, being Monday. That would have been no problem, except for the nasty explosion that came next.

And yes, Jeff did, then, use my good towels, promising me he’d replace them all. I was sick. Just sick about it.

However, this same ever-enterprising husband called our landlord back and told him we couldn’t wait for help on the morrow, and in the meantime, he ran up to our church to borrow a wet vac to clean up yet a third explosion of offensiveness. It was already 9:00 by this time, and our Sunday School starts at 9:30. I was charged with keeping the children out of the mess, and since they were already dressed for church, when Jeff returned, I took them so we could work unhindered.

This time, when I walked into the office, I was hit with wretched of wretchedness. My power of description utterly fails me here, but suffice it to say, the smell was so bad, I stuffed tissue in both nostrils before entering the haz mat situation again. The stench was everywhere, in the kitchen and the living room. Imagine sewage, add dead rotting fish, toss in a few squares of undissolved toilet tissue, and then remember that I used that bathroom anywhere from 10-20 times a day. I opened up the back doors to let some air in and the foulness out. It didn’t help much. And then I walked back into the bathroom and saw Jeff's solution to the stink. He lit ONE scented candle, as if that single-handedly would drive away the breath of horrid odor.

Jeff told me the same thing had happened to our friends and we couldn’t use any water because it would only continue to spew things out of the toilet and shower. I had a moment of panic when I realized I hadn’t had any diarrhea yet that morning and it was sure to come.

“Don’t worry,” said my practical husband. “You can always drive up to the church every time you need to go.” And he turned back to suck up the sludge.

Soothing. Not at all.

I had to be doing something, and since only one person could shop vac at a time, Jeff suggested I go clean up the playroom.

I did, and it hasn’t been that organized in months.

In the meantime, Roto Rooter had been called to come out. We knew we’d have to wait because all technicians were already out on their first call.

I decided to run up to the church to pick up the children and bring them home, since the worst was over with, but when I got there, they were fine and having a grand time, so I left them again.

Good thing we only live 8 houses down, for when I returned home, within minutes, I could feel my stomach churning and gurgling, and there was nowhere to go. So, I hopped back in the car, dashed up to church, and at the stop sign, I saw a Roto Rooter van coming my way.

I stopped, rolled down the window, and very hurriedly (because I had to GO), told him, “You’re looking for my house. It’s the 8th house on the right, red brick, and the garage door is opened, all ready for you.” I think I could have won a speed-speaking contest with that sentence.

That goodness for church bathrooms, especially the close ones.

Since I was already at church yet again, I decided to go ahead and pick up the children. Jeff suggested I keep them out of the house while the guy was there, and I’m not sure if it was to keep them out of his way, or if it was to keep them out of any potential further explosions of the stank kind. Probably both. They’d likely put on their rain boots and have a happy dance in it, if we let them.

So, we went up to Taco Bell and picked up lunch.

By the time we got back, the man was almost done.

Jeff met us outside and I asked him if he’d found the problem.

“Yes. Old pipes and quality toilet paper, and using lots of it, caused the pipes to get clogged up, then backed up, and then all this mess.”

Oops. That would be me. I need me some quality toilet paper these days.

275 dollars later and a cold Mountain Dew for the road, the technician left, but of course, not before I just HAD to explain to him that I only had 6 inches of small bowel, which meant that I had to use the bathroom quite a bit.

He absently nodded, humoring me, I'm sure, and I could tell he didn't really care. He was done and off to the next job.

Then came the cleaning part. I stood outside the door, handing Jeff Lysol wipes and Lysol with Bleach for which to clean. He did it all, bless his manly servant’s heart. I still had my tissues in my nose.

He was about half way done when I offered to fetch him gloves. He just gave me an eyeball roll and said I could have offered 20 minutes before.

Our pastor, his son, and other friends stopped by after church with their sleeves rolled up, ready to pitch in and help. They were a little too late, but the gesture was certainly appreciated.

Jeff had done his work well, and when I look back at the day (we still need to steam clean the carpet, and I’m sure I’ll be tasked with that tomorrow) my Jeff really did do all of the nasty work. I kept offering to help, but he wouldn’t let me. And boy, am I thankful!