Irritable Bowel Syndrome

People think IBS is as an immediate & muddy situation that occurs in the elderly. This is not always the case. My IBS leaned more towards ceaseless constipation and it began at age 15.

I used to eat and within 30 minutes, you found me curled up in a ball, rocking myself to-and-fro. My IBS was the male equivalent of pregnancy, only the final product was discarded, flushed and forgotten (enter inappropriate joke about how actual pregnancy can be discarded, flushed and forgotten). I was a junior in college when my IBS discovered its arch-nemesis. And on that fateful day, a man who experienced my IBS firsthand may never… ever… use a public restroom again.

Mike’s famous Italian deli in the Bronx. You have to walk through an indoor marketplace that hasn’t changed since the 40’s. Ancient Italian men playing cards, stray cats scampering at the sight of an old woman’s broom… ask anyone at Fordham University and they’ll confirm the details.

My closest friend Herman introduced me to Mike’s Deli. We met as sophomores and it took Herman only a month after meeting me to add 25 pounds to my girlish figure. Every place in NYC that was known for its famous ‘whatever’ was on Herman’s list. New York’s best Italian Deli sandwiches; how could I resist?

The IBS was so bad after a Mike’s sandwich, I often used their public restroom. I’d rush in, neglect cleaning the seat and sit. And sit. Sometimes for 25 to 30 minutes. Herman knew the drill, but after a while he’d tire of waiting and check in. I was never ready.

I started avoiding certain ingredients, hoping to find the root of my discomfort. After altering the contents of “The GodFather Hoagie” and “The Bronx Tale Sammie”, my arch-nemesis revealed itself: Broccoli-Rabe. The Rabe was a staple in a lot of Mike’s sandwiches, and if it wasn’t, Mike’s owner would constantly throw it in. I’m convinced he knew of my situation and experimented with ingredients to aggravate my IBS. I imagined he and his deli-boys making bets on what made the chubby kid rush to the bathroom.

It was a Saturday afternoon and Herman wanted a Mike’s sandwich. I went, promising him that I’d request no Rabe. “I’ll have a Shrimp Poor Boy, but please, no Rabe” I said to the counter boy. Our food came out. Without checking, I bit in. Rabe. I could taste it. But the sandwich was so good that I kept on going. Like a child holding his hand over the flame, my curiosity needed to be satisfied. We finished in record time. No aches, no pains. Was I wrong? Could it all be in my head? “Let’s celebrate,” I said to Herm, “espressos on me!” I spoke too soon. The sweating began all of the sudden.

Sweating is very common with severe IBS. Once it started, my clothes became a paper towel: thick enough to hold liquid but obviously soaked through. “Herman, I’m sorry…” I said as I rushed to the bathroom. I busted in the door and took my usual position. This time was different. My stomach expanded beyond its usual pregnancy. The pain was far too great and since poop wasn’t an option, I had to vomit in order to relieve the swelling. I’m crying now. I’m a 20 year old crying in a dirty bathroom while inducing vomit. I’m in the clear again. Herman and I reconvene downstairs. I’m soaked from head to toe & my skin color is creamy. The vomit helped. “How about that coffee?” I asked Herman.

We walked down Arthur Ave towards our favorite cafe. When out front, we’d have to walk about a mile back to campus. The sweat began again. I didn’t even excuse myself, I just started running. “Sorry Herman, I’ve got to get back. I’m gonna blow!” Sprinting while holding my anus (as if it would hold back the river), I ran down a very public street in the Bronx. A chubby little white kid, full-on sprinting through a ghetto. Once I reached Fordham Road, I waited for traffic to pass. Home was just across the street. Cars, and lots of them. I just… couldn’t… hold it. And then I saw it. The white, majestic building. It was a fairy tale fortress where I’d find my throne. It was the Fordham Road White Castle.

“BUZZ ME IN NOW!” It’s a rough neighborhood, so of course the bathroom was treated like a prison. The high school-aged African American employee accepted my request. Working at that particular White Castle, she has seen it all. So the sight of a soaking wet lunatic screaming for the bathroom was her average Saturday afternoon.

I’m in. And I’m alone. And it felt like the sun. I ripped off every article of clothing, even my socks. The cold porcelain instantly cooled my body as I expelled a 15 pound fecal baby. It was unlike anything I’d ever felt. The most intense sense of urgency followed by relief so swift that it bordered orgasmic pleasure. I began to laugh at myself. Alone, in a White Castle bathroom, naked and staring in the mirror. And then she hit the buzzer.

White Castle’s bathroom was built for one. She must have forgotten. The buzz seemed to last forever. I knew what would happen, but never imagined who be standing there. The door opened and there he was… an overweight, sloppy black man holding a slider box in one hand and cheeseburger with the other. We caught eyes. He stood in the door frame like a deer-in-headlights, but he never stopped chewing. There I was, a naked white boy sitting on a mound of dung; the room smelt of death. And he was watching me as if it wasn’t real; as if he flipped the channel and got stuck on a special program about IBS on PBS. In what felt like an eternity, he finally opened his mouth and said something that symbolizes my fight against Irritable Bowel:

Fat black guy -  This is some Fucked up shit.