Caregiver Chronicles: The Enema Episode
“One thing I learned today about giving an elderly person with dementia an enema … don’t do it alone.”
‘Nuff said.
That meme I created today came to me mid-chaos, somewhere between the in-betweens. I thought it was funny, relatable, and layered — one of those lines that’s funny for some, serious for others, and spot-on for those in the caregiving trenches.
My day began like many others: wake Dad at 6:00 a.m., give medications, hydrate. But the moment he sat up, I knew routine had packed its bags and left the building. A particular squish followed by an unmistakable smell — yep, it was going to be one of those days
Naturally, today was also the day my senior helper didn’t come. No nurse visits scheduled either.
Dad’s had diarrhea for a few days — volume and intensity bouncing like a yo-yo. He’d just wrapped up another round of antibiotics, which often bring side effects. But this wasn’t just skin irritation or inflammation. I knew this pain — the way he winced while sitting said it all. This was paradoxical diarrhea: both constipation and diarrhea at once. I call it the flow-around. Solid matter blocks the exit, while everything else squeezes past like water leaking through cracked mortar.
So I moved fast. Laid down Chux pads like I was prepping for a levy-breaking flood — bed, floor, bathroom path. Got Dad up, shuffled him to the sink, and (after slicing away his diaper) started containment.
They call them Chux pads because you chuck them — single-use heroes of the home front.
And no matter how many you lay down, the mess always finds a way to escape. Then he steps in it. Tracks it. You know the scenario well, don't you, my fellow caregivers.
From there: toilet attempt (failed), shower battle (epic), resistance (high), volume (loud enough to summon the gods), pain (shared). I often say I wash my father like a truck — not roughly, but deliberately. With care and purpose. You try not to damage the paint, even in a storm.
But the truck doesn’t know that.
It’ll still roll over your foot.
What I found confirmed my suspicion: the blockage was there — just low enough to be felt, but too large to pass. Manual extraction? Not an option. Dad wouldn’t allow it — and he still packs a punch.
Out of the shower, back to the bed (now a fortress of Chux). Feet cleaned before landing — because yes, they’d walked through the minefield — unsuccessfully. Yet again.
Then came the enema. Administering that alone? Don’t. Just … don’t. It requires strength, dexterity, emotional fortitude, and probably soundproofing. I half expected the neighbors to call the police.
And when it kicked in — oh, it kicked in. Quick trip to the bedside commode. But only partial relief. Still blocked. Still painful. Still very much not over.
I lost track of how many times we went back and forth to the shower. Each time trying to preserve dignity, manage pain, clean up the aftermath. I gave him fluids, Lactulose solution, hope. It might take a day or more. Meanwhile, he was exhausted. I was exhausted. And I knew — this was too much to do alone.
Honestly, maybe it was best I did do it alone, since there were no professionals available. If my senior helper — a non-medical aide who’s wonderful in calmer moments — had shown up today, I suspect she would’ve completed her shift … and then ghosted me forever. I thought that as I toiled: this is the kind of day that breaks gentler beings than me — though I’ll admit, I cracked more than a little.
Finally, I set him up to rest. Layers of Chux. A pad over the diaper area. Let him sleep. I kept hydrating him, monitoring him … waiting. The Lactulose bottle? Of course I dropped it. Don’t lift by the cap. Sticky mess. Kitchen floor’s still tacky.
And then — just when I thought I might exhale — he pulled off the top pad, soiled it, and tucked part of the sheets and blanket under himself. They, too, became casualties. So … yes, another cleanup. Another shower. More laundry. More everything.
This isn't the end of my day, just a pause.
I have more to do before the sun comes up.
Some might wonder how I find the time — or the energy — to write this all down. But for me, writing isn’t separate from caregiving. It’s how I stay sane, how I make sense of the chaos. I was born with ink on my palms. It flows out without planning. My mind speaks fluently, even when my mouth says, “What the hell!”
This isn’t just a story. It’s a real, relentless day. A day in the life of a family caregiver.
And the truth is simple: never do this alone — not the enema procedure, not the cleanup, not the holding-it-all-together.
We can do a lot alone. Solo.
But there are things we should never do alone.
This is one of them. One of the many.
And later, I may laugh about today. Or some of it.
But not tonight. Not quite yet.
I see some humor in it, but it hasn’t sunk in enough yet.
My fellow caregivers:
We live this life.
We slowly find our way through.
We make mistakes.
We choose to share them with others.
We do not present the pretenses.
We give of ourselves fully — in caregiving, and in our cautionary tales and life experiences.
We are real,
and we are seen,
and we can be heard —
by those willing to see and to listen.
Copyright June 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved
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