Enough to Miss Christmas

"Five days. That's far too long. Have you tried going today?"

"Can't we talk about something else, please?"

"I'm not the one who's constipated. You should take something."

"I've got a soccer game tomorrow. I can't go running off the field to the can every ten minutes. Just let me rest. I'll be fine."

"I'm sure there are some medicines that would do the trick before tomorrow," I answered.

"You know I won't take medicine. Can't you give me honey, or tea or something natural that works?"

"What did your father do for you when you were constipated?"

"He went to Chicago or somewhere else. Like he always did before you came along."

I ignored her sarcasm. "You should take something."

"I told you . . . like a million times. I don't like medicine."

"Sometimes it's necessary."

She looked at me. "What did your mother give you? I bet she wouldn't run out to the store and buy some chemical junk."

I should have expected it. It was the stock question as if she considered any original suggestion coming directly from me to be totally bogus. This time I had to smile to myself. For once, my mother's remedy would take a back seat to more modern health care methods. This wasn't my mother's recipe for apple pie or what board game we played around the kitchen table on Sunday evenings. It wasn't the description of a picnic in the park or the details of a family camping trip. This was the requisite solution but far from a pleasant happening in the trials of growing up. "We were given an enema," I answered.

"That's the hot water bottle thing we brought down from the attic, isn't it?" I was surprised she'd known.

She changed the subject. "Do we have any ice cream? I think that would make me feel better than that thing."

She looked miserable. I put a hand to her forehead and bent down to kiss her. "I'll go out and get some ice cream and look for something to help you. Try going again." She rolled her eyes and turned away as I left.

I looked forward to nursing Karen, knowing she'd complain but accept my sympathy. I chided myself for mentioning the enema but I was secretly pleased to find the first thing my mother had done that she found unacceptable. I'd keep her in bed and plied her with understanding and comfort. Hot tea and toast and hours of bedside compassion, just as my mother had done for me.

I wasn't familiar with any of the laxatives on a personal basis so I over did it by purchasing a liquid, some pills, a chewable and a suppository, enough choices to remedy Karen's problem.