Wetlands. Charlotte Roche
his chest pocket. It looks heavy. Expensive. He looks around for a piece of paper to draw on. I can’t help him and hope he doesn’t expect me to. Any movement hurts. I close my eyes. There’s rustling and I hear him ripping a piece of paper out of something. I have to open my eyes—I’m anxious to see the drawing. He holds the piece of paper in his palm and scribbles with the pen. Then he presents his creation. I read: savoy cabbage in cream sauce. No way. He’s ripped the paper out of the hospital menu. I turn the paper around. He’s drawn a circle. I figure it’s supposed to be my butthole. And out of the circle a triangular wedge has been cut, as if someone has made off with a piece of cake.
Aha, got it. Thanks, Dr. Notz. Ever thought about putting all that talent into a career as an artist? The sketch doesn’t help me at all. Though I’m still no better informed, I don’t ask any more questions. He isn’t interested in helping enlighten me.
“Surely you could cut out the cauliflower with just a little flick of the wrist?”
“It’ll be done.”
He walks out, leaving me lying in the puddle of water from the blister. I’m alone. And worried about the operation. I think of general anesthesia as something dangerous, as if every second patient never wakes up. I feel courageous for going ahead with it. The anesthesiologist comes in next.
The sandman. He pulls up a low stool and sits down with his face right in front of mine. He speaks softly and has a lot more compassion for my situation than Dr. Notz. He asks how old I am. If I were under eighteen there would have to be a legal guardian here. But I’m not. I tell him I’ve come of legal age this year. He looks incredulously into my eyes. I know. Nobody ever believes it; I look younger. I know this drill. I put on my serious you-can-trust-me face and lock eyes with him. His gaze changes. He believes me. On with the discussion.
He explains how the anesthesia works. I’ll count and then just fall asleep at some point without even noticing. He’ll sit by my head throughout the operation, monitor my breathing, and check that the anesthesia is agreeing with me. Aha. So this sitting-too-close-to-my-face thing is an occupational hazard. Most people don’t notice anyway—they’re knocked out. And he’s probably supposed to be as unobtrusive as possible and hunker down close to the patient’s head so as not to disturb the real doctors. Poor guy. The standard position while practicing his trade? Squatting.
He’s brought a contract that I’m supposed to sign. It says the operation could result in incontinence. I ask how it could affect my pissing. He grins and says this refers to anal incontinence. Never heard of it. But suddenly I realize what this means: “You mean I might lose control of my sphincter muscles and then I could just crap myself anytime and anyplace and would need a diaper and stink all the time?”
The sandman: “Yes, but that rarely happens. Sign here, please.”
I sign it. What else am I supposed to do? If that’s what it takes to have the surgery. I can’t exactly go home and operate on myself.
Oh, man. Please, dear nonexistent God, don’t let this happen. I’d be wearing a diaper at age eighteen. You’re not supposed to need those until you’re eighty. It would also mean I’d only have managed to live fourteen years of my life without diapers. And you certainly don’t look cool in them.
“Dear anesthesiologist, would it be possible for me to see what they cut away during the operation? I don’t like the idea that a part of me could end up in the trash along with aborted fetuses and appendixes without my being able to picture it. I want to hold it in my hand and examine it.”
“If that’s what you want, then sure.”
“Thanks.” He sticks a catheter into my arm and secures everything with surgical tape. This is where they’ll pump in the anesthesia later. He says that in a few minutes a nurse will come to take me to surgery. Now the anesthesiologist too leaves me lying in the puddle of moisture from my blister and walks out.
The thought of anal incontinence worries me.
Dear nonexistent God, if I manage to get out of here without anal incontinence, I’ll stop doing all the things that give me a bad conscience. Like the game I play with my friend Corinna where we run through the city drunk and grab people’s eyeglasses, break them, and then chuck them into the street.
We have to run quickly—some people get so pissed off that they come after us really fast even without their glasses.
The game is stupid anyway because we always sober up from all the excitement and adrenaline. Big waste of money. Afterward we always have to start from scratch again getting drunk.
Actually, I’d like to give that game up anyway—sometimes at night I dream of the faces of the people whose glasses we’ve just plucked off. It’s as if we’ve ripped off a body part.
I’ll give that one up right now, and I’ll try to come up with a list of some other things.
Maybe if it’s absolutely necessary I’ll give up the hookers. That would be a major sacrifice, though. It would be great if giving up the glasses game would suffice.
I’ve decided to be the best patient this hospital has ever had. I’m going to be extra nice to the overworked nurses and doctors. I’ll clean up my own messes. Like the fluid from my blister. There’s an open box of rubber gloves on the windowsill. Obviously for examinations. Did Notz have one on when he popped the blister on my ass? Shit, I didn’t notice. Next to the carton of rubber gloves is a big translucent-plastic container. Tupperware for a giant. Maybe there’s something in there I can use to clean myself up. My bed is up against the window. Slowly, gingerly, I stretch myself out a little without moving my infected bum and manage to grab it. I pull the container onto my bed. Ouch. Lifting it and pulling it tenses my stomach muscles, sending a knife of pain into the infection. I pause. Close my eyes. Breathe deeply. Lie still. Wait for the pain to subside. Eyes open. Okay.
Now I can open the container. What excitement. It’s filled to the brim with giant hygienic wipes, adult diapers, disposable underwear, toweling, and bed covers that are plastic on one side and cloth on the other.
I would like to have had one of those under me when Notz came in. Then the bed wouldn’t be all wet. Not very comfortable. I need two of them now. One, cloth side down over the puddle. It’ll soak it up. But then I’d be laying on plastic. Don’t like that. So another one with its plastic side down—plastic on plastic—and the cloth side up. Well done, Helen. Despite the hellish pain, you are your own best nurse.
Anyone who can take care of herself so well will definitely recuperate quickly. I’ll have to be a bit more hygienic here in the hospital than I am outside in my normal life.
Hygiene’s not a major concern of mine.
At some point I realized that boys and girls are taught differently about how to keep their intimate regions clean. My mother placed great importance on the hygiene of my pussy but none at all on that of my brother’s penis. He’s allowed to piss without wiping and to let the last few drops dribble into his underwear.
Washing your pussy is considered a deadly serious science in our home. It’s made out to be extremely difficult to keep a pussy really clean. Which is nonsense, of course. A little water, a little soap, scrub-scrub. Done.
Just don’t wash too much. For one thing because of the all-important flora of the pussy. But also because of the taste and scent of the pussy, which is so important during sex. Don’t want to get rid of that. I’ve experimented with long periods of not washing my pussy. My aim is to get its enticing scent to waft lightly out of my pants, even through thick jeans or ski pants. Men won’t consciously notice it but it’ll register subliminally since we’re all just animals who want to mate—preferably with someone who smells like pussy.
Then, when you’re flirting, you can’t help smiling the whole time because you know what’s filling the air with that deliciously sweet scent. It’s what perfume is supposed to accomplish. We’re always told that perfume has an erotic effect on those around us. But why not use our own much more powerful perfume? In reality we’re all turned on by the scents of pussy, cock, and sweat.