A few weeks ago when I was having a particularly painful bout, I was doubled over on the toilet, whimpering and moaning. My fiance, Michael (who has a perfect gut even on chemotherapy and a wicked sense of humor), banged on the door and said that he preferred to hear those sounds coming out of me under other circumstances — if you get my drift. I leaned back and the toilet reservoir literally broke in half.
First of all, nobody wants to be having a major “pooping black water” diarrhea episode within earshot and noseshot of one’s fiance. I think I can safely say, though, that absolutely *nobody* wants the toilet to explode in the middle of it. Water was literally gushing out from cracks in the side of the reservoir like Yellowstone geysers.
I panicked. We have hardwood floors. Toilet water + hardwood floors = DISASTER. I cried out, “Oh God!! Oh GOD!!”
And Michael banged on the door, “THAT’S what I am talking about!! BABY!!”
“Go downstairs!! NOW!!!”
“NO! Turn off the water!!! TURN OFF THE WATER!!!”
Perhaps it was the panic in my voice — or the water seeping out from under the bathroom door — but he dashed downstairs to turn off the water at the main valve.
There is one more part of this story that I might as well share. (I mean, I have gone this far, haven’t I?) I live in a three-story beach condo facing a main highway. I was on the third floor, and we have a roof deck with potted plants and a bucket feet away from this particular bathroom. While Michael was running down three flights of stairs, I ran outside to get the bucket. It was then, on the deck, feeling cold where I should not be feeling cold, that I realized in my panic I had forgotten to pull up my jeans.
Welcome to my life, people.