Ostomy Memories Again
Working in an office means sharing a bathroom. Our office was spread out over multiple floors. The bathrooms were out on the stairwell, half a flight up or down, depending upon whether one was looking for MEN or WOMEN. One day I was in a stall. A guy came in, peed, washed up, and left. As he left, another fellow entered, and they exchanged greetings. I therefore knew who the man was that then entered the stall next to me. Then I heard a crinkling. I recognized it, of course. It was the unmistakable, distinctive, unique sound made by the handling of an ostomy pouch, so noisy, in fact, that it sounded like one of those cheap, clear ones they use in hospitals. I finished and, as I was washing my hands, he exited his stall. We exchanged reserved greetings. I now knew his secret, but he didn’t know mine. One day, as fate would have it, I would inherit his job. Unbeknownst to him, we shared something else as well.