The first job of the morning has stayed with me for the rest of the day
*Warning: not for the faint of heart* Herein lays a tale of Scaryduck stylings.
I was sent to a 'Male, 59, fitting – locked in empty bathroom'. I got there quickly, within eight minutes, so already it was a 'successful' job.
As the person who met me opened the door to the flat I was overwhelmed with an intense, and incredibly disgusting smell. At first I thought that it was the person opening the door (he was rather dishevelled, and I've smelt breath that bad before), but no, the smell got stronger as I entered the flat.
There were four people there, all of them looked like the man who opened the door, and the state of the flat made me think that everyone in there was an alcoholic.
Sitting, or rather, propped up on the sofa was the man who had been fitting. His friends had managed to undo the door to the bathroom, and had manhandled him into the living room.
“He's been drinking, we were both drinking heavily yesterday”, I was told.
“Fair enough”, I said, “Is he epileptic, or does he have alcoholic fits?”
“Both, I think”, replied his friend.
Then I looked down.
Something the size of a snooker ball had rolled down the inside of his jeans and was sitting in front of him. It was brown, it was wet, and was rather horrible looking.
A pile of poo. His poo. A poo done after a night of heavy drinking.
Suddenly I realised where the smell was coming from.
I'm sure that most people realise that after a night on the town, the first poo you do can stink to high heaven. This was that epic a poo. I imagine that there was a lot more of it smeared over the inside of his jeans. This is the sort of poo that would issue forth from the arse of Satan himself. It was the sort of poo that shouldn't be flushed away, but instead sealing in a barrel and buried in a place that has lots of warning signs pinned to the barbed wire fence surrounding it.
It really did smell that bad.
His friend (who actually didn't know him that well), picked up the poo with a bit of newspaper and ran it into the toilet.
I could hear him gagging from his new-found proximity to the toxic poo. When he came back into the room his face was an interesting shade of pale green, and there was a thin film of sweat upon his brow.
I treated the patient, actually quite a simple job. Then the ambulance crew turned up, and I pointed out that the patient's shoe was covered in his own sticky poo.
Carrying the patient down the stairs, the poo managed to get transferred from the shoe onto the shirt of one of the crew. He wasn't happy.
I stopped myself from laughing.
The only problem is that I can still, several hours later, smell the rank stench of that demonic poo from hell. Actually, I can still taste the poo in the air.
I almost feel sorry for the nurses at the hospital…