Faultless Memories

By Anonymous

Recently I chanced upon an old Faultless fountain syringe advertisement. The sight of that familiar red bag triggered early memories to emerge and caused me to reflect on those times when that large rubber bag appeared in the bathroom.
 
 

As a child, my experiences were a chain of separate events unrelated to when they occurred. Time, and its passage, was a concept not yet fully comprehended. I could recall the circumstance and details of some event, but not the precise when. A trip to see the circus was indelibly etched into my brain. It was much later, as an older child, that I would make the association that it happened in late June, when I was five years old. But only after learning from others, typically parents, when the event actually happened. Since I never openly reminisced about receiving enemas, those early experiences have no time anchor in my life. All I can say for certain was that I was less than ten years old.

I do know those early enema sessions weren't regular, weekly events, but beyond that I have no idea of the interval between each episode. Nor do I recall if those enemas were only used to combat constipation. Without a doubt, some certainly were, for I do remember particularly traumatic instances of straining to produce a bowel movement and fighting the subsequent enema when no results were forthcoming. But there were other times when all I can recall is the enema session itself. Isolated, yet vivid in every detail.

I did not include the many enemas I received when I was ill in my tally of the sessions I had to suffer through. Perhaps they didn't warrant inclusion because of all the other disagreeable, yet necessary therapies that I had to endure. Or the fact that I reluctantly accepted enemas as an integral recovery procedure. Isolated, the enema was a traumatic experience, but when it was one other sickroom component that included an injection of penicillin, prescription cough syrup, vaporizers and chest rubs much of the associated dread was forgotten. I had little fight in me while running a fever. Daily temperature takings conditioned bottom to being invaded and, most importantly, I genuinely felt better after undergoing the enema ordeal. I remembered these enemas well enough, I just didn't lump them in with the "regular" enemas.

A good cleaning out was what those other enemas were about. The enemas that most stood out in my memory were the ones that I had foreknowledge of. Not that I was informed that an enema was soon to be used on me. I knew I might get an enema if I complained of constipation, but the decision wasn't announced. No advance warning such as, "You need a good cleaning out and I am going to give you an enema tonight." Or, "Later I'll give you a good enema to cure your constipation." I knew I was in for an enema when I saw the prepared bag waiting in the bathroom.

The exception was during illnesses, then I would be let in on the knowledge that I could expect an enema. The doctor, for one, would make mention it in my presence, "Give him a good enema as soon as possible." Usually this pronouncement was made while the thermometer was still lodged in my behind. Then during convalescence, again usually while my temperature was being taken, I would be warned, "Don't change your underwear yet. I am going to give you an enema in a little while."

It was much the same as being told when to expect the next dose of cough medicine or antibiotic pill. I still dreaded the procedure but the information allowed me to prepare myself as best I could for the ordeal. I would gulp and nod acknowledgement at the news. I was mortified to hear the doctor say it, especially if was during an office visit.

But it was during those individual days of youth, when I was jolted by the unexpected sight of the enema bag hanging in the bathroom that set off the trepidation and embarrassment. Was it taken out of storage and placed there for me, I would wonder. I was instantly drawn to that instrument of pain and humiliation. I couldn't help myself, I had to inspect it as soon as I saw it draped over the towel rack, mouth down, tubing looped over the bar. Was it wet? If it was, who was it used on? Was it out for me? I would stand shivering with fear and excitement as I examined its surface and peeked at the interior and shook the attached tubing to see if any water could be coaxed out.

When the enema bag appeared like this it remained on display for several days. I do not know if it was in continual use during that time or if was only drying and then temporarily forgotten. I did know that if it was out there was a very good chance it would be used on me. I tried to determine if that was intentional or coincidental. Did the enema bag appear because it was determined that I needed an enema, or was I going to get an enema because the equipment was readily available? My mind raced in circles trying to figure which it was. I would also attempt to remember when the last enema had been. I would recall the details with shame and embarrassment but not the interval.

I always promised myself that I wouldn't make a scene this time. That I would cooperate and be able to take the enema without crying. I would be brave and not fight. It wouldn't be that bad.

These unannounced enemas were given at bath time. I'd enter the bathroom and see the jar of Vaseline open on the sink. The folded towel on the edge of the bathtub. And most of all, pulling my eyes to it, the prepared enema bag hanging from the towel rack. It was supported by a distinctive wooden coat hanger. This coat hanger had a narrow, gracefully curved shoulder, no cross piece and a sturdy, longer than normal, hook. The hook was rotated so that the enema bag hung parallel to the wall. The tubing hung down from the bottom of the rubber bag in a narrow arc. Its free end was deep inside the gaping mouth of the fountain syringe with the shutoff clamp just visible. The bag was wet and soap suds clung to its rounded edges.

I knew the routine. I was to remove any remaining clothing and pee. Then get up on my mother's lap across the folded towel placed over her knees. She would dip the nozzle in the jar to lubricate it before parting my buttocks to insert the nozzle. I'd take deep slow breaths, she'd open the shutoff and I'd relax while the contents of the enema bag flowed into my bowels. After the bag was empty I was to remain still to give the soapy solution time to work. Then I would be helped to the toilet.

If I did all this I could complain as much as I wanted while sitting there without fear of reprisal. I could say the water was too hot or too soapy. I could moan and groan loudly as my abdomen cramped. I could even say I didn't need the enema. But only if I cooperated with everything else first.

At the sight of the waiting enema bag my resolve and self-made promises faded. The desire that burned intensely inside me at the prospect of receiving an enema became leaden fear when I faced the reality of actually getting one. Trembling, I would strip out of what little remaining clothing I wore when I entered the bathroom. I'd try to pee, averting my eyes from my mother. It was difficult to get the flow of urine started with both an audience and an erection. It required both hands to bend my very stiff erection towards the bowl. Pee shot out in short, desperate squirts.

Finished I'd force myself to turn towards the bathtub. I tried not to look, but I always did. I took in the waiting syringe and the draped tubing, the Vaseline and the towel covered lap. Self control fled. I whimpered that I didn't want an enema right now. There was no bargaining. Still I had to get into position. Goose bumps covered my exposed skin. I shivered not from being cold but with fright.

Always I thought I'd be able to relax and permit the nozzle to be gently inserted, and always I tensed up and had it forced past my clenched sphincter. The reminders that I did so well on previous occasions did little to calm my fears or put me at ease. My logic was that I needed those enemas then, but that I didn't need one now. I was never so bold to suggest I would ask for an enema the next time I thought I needed one.

As the enema solution bore into me its warmth spread, but so did the fullness and cramps that came with the invading liquid. My anus hurt from resisting the nozzle and the soapy water irritated my guts. Cramps made me holler in pain. Throughout the enema procedure I was urged to breath and relax. The flow, while never seeming to be forceful or rapid, was inexorable. Pleas for temporary respite when unheeded. Panting was the only offered succor. I had to take all of the enema for it to be effective.

In spite of the discomfort I didn't have many accidents. I leaked some, but I never lost control. By the time the last of the enema solution was draining out of the swaying bag I was in agony, my guts bloated beyond comprehension, but I managed to retain it all.

Even when I was severely constipated I was able to take all of the enema, which confused me. Surely there wasn't room inside me for all that liquid plus all that backed up material. I never witnessed the preparation of my enemas, so I had little idea of the volumes involved. That Faultless fountain syringe outwardly appeared the same whether it was less than half full or brimming. When I asked how much would I have to take the answer was always the same, "Enough for a good enema." Whatever the actual volume, by the time I sat to relieve myself, it burst forth in a gut-wrenching, unstoppable torrent.

I studied that enema bag every moment I could while it was on display. If it hadn't been yet used on me I wondered who in the family was the recipient and when the event had occurred. I'd stare up at it during my bath and touch it every time I entered the bathroom. It fascinated me and I couldn't quite understand why. Seeing the bag made me wish for an enema even though I hated the pain and humiliation that came with it. When I left the bathroom I always had a fierce erection. If it wasn't used on me, when it finally disappeared my relief was tinged with disappointment.

To my understanding, the difference between these enema sessions and the ones associated with illness was that when I was sick I had to have an enema, while these were given because I needed to have an enema. A subtle but important distinction to me. Thus I was an unwilling, guilty party to the process and I resisted out of shame. When I was sick, it wasn't my fault. The enema was another treatment. That the process was identical didn't seem to matter. I would docilely submit to as many enemas as required when ill, but I fought the solitary occasional enema given to me because of some imagined behavior failure.

My behavior frustrated my mother. She knew I could cooperate with the procedure and strive to take and retain the volume that filled the enema bag. How I could be so stubborn and recalcitrant on other occasions baffled her. This duality continued but did not seem to affect the number of "good enemas" I was given when I wasn't down with some illness.

As I grew older my behavior settled down. I found that if I hadn't had a enema for some time I missed them and wished I could have one. Around the time I was almost twelve and able to take an entire bag of solution I got my secret wish. From then on, for a period of several years, I was given an enema every time the enema bag made its approximately monthly appearance.