I certainly didn’t plan to go without underwear that day. As I squirmed in my seat, trying to create a little distance between myself and the woman beside me at the conference table, I managed a weak smile, praying she couldn’t catch a whiff of my predicament.
Clearly, I didn’t aim to have an unfortunate accident either.
In an attempt to maintain some semblance of stealth, I dropped my pen on the floor, bending down to check for any unpleasant odors. To my relief, there was no immediate foul smell, but I still wasn’t entirely convinced.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly.
Under normal circumstances, I would have slipped into my office first thing, but on this day, I found myself sitting in a room full of colleagues, strategizing about bioterrorism, right after having created my very own biohazard incident.
Just a few weeks prior, I had undergone surgery—an experience that was far from enjoyable, required due to the wear and tear my body endured during childbirth. Yes, I had to have surgery on my rear end. The technical term is a lateral internal sphincterotomy, which is necessary when anal fissures—those charming little tears in the rectum caused by difficult deliveries—won’t heal. And you thought pregnancy hemorrhoids were the worst!
According to my butt specialist (or, as they prefer, colorectal surgeon), we humans have two sphincters. Apparently, only one is necessary. To promote healing, the surgeon cuts the internal sphincter, a procedure that sounds horrific (and was). After two years of feeling like I was passing nails and shards of glass—thanks to my beloved children—I was willing to try anything.
The surgery itself went well, and I thought I was on the mend. But on this particular day, I truly grasped the importance of having two sphincters, as I could have used the second one as a backup.
After dropping off my kids, I headed to work. Typically, I’d make a beeline for the restroom, but today was different. Instead, I found myself at a different location, ten minutes farther away.
As I drove, my stomach began to rumble just five minutes from my destination. By the three-minute mark, it became evident that this was no drill. Gripping the steering wheel, I tightened everything as if my life depended on it. There was no way I was going to soil my pants!
Unfortunately for me, I was short one anal muscle, courtesy of Dr. Sphincter. Realizing I might genuinely have an accident was terrifying. I leaned forward, praying for a miracle as sweat cascaded down my face, and I careened into the parking lot.
I rushed out of the car, clutching my purse while desperately trying to keep everything contained. Painfully awkward, I hurried towards the lobby where the bathrooms awaited. Luckily, I was early, and thankfully, no one from my meeting was around to witness my frantic shuffle.
What happened next? Not exactly my finest moment.
As soon as I approached the restroom, my body relaxed at the thought of relief. Just inside the door, I knew I wasn’t going to escape unscathed. Panic set in. I quickly tossed my belongings aside, almost tripping as I stumbled toward the stall with the door wide open.
With a mix of urgency and relief, I dropped my pants and nearly wept in gratitude. You can imagine the scene. Thankfully, the damage was mostly confined to my underwear (and my pride). I was wearing one of my favorite pairs, but there was no time for sentiment. Off they went, double and triple wrapped in paper towels before being tossed in the garbage.
I frantically wet some paper towels and cleaned myself up, darting back into the stall as I heard footsteps approaching. After ensuring I was as presentable as possible, I took a deep breath, checked myself in the mirror, and washed my hands one last time for good measure.
Eventually, my body healed, but my ego? That’s still a work in progress.
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