Death Wears Pink Pigtails

When I had to travel all the time dragging cosmetics paraphernalia to needy stores across the West, I learned not to drink water. You see, back in the days of the wagon train, one wanted to carry an abundance of water. The whole death-by-dehydration thing was a bit of an inconvenience. And there were plenty of bushes and rocks and tumbleweeds available for a person to have relative privacy when it became necessary to take care of the after-effects of so much water consumption.

However...today our trusty bushes and rocks and tumbleweeds have been replaced with billboards and pavement and mile markers, making travel-based after-market water distribution a bit of a challenge. Especially for women. We don't have the convenient ability to aim.

As a child, I was forced to squat by the side of the busy highway with headlights flickering past. Not even an open door to hide behind because the pick-up was taller than my little squatty profile. My mother passed along the generations-old family wisdom: "Just close your eyes. Then you won't know who sees you." Thanks, Mom. That certainly did make it easier. That must be why I developed a bladder the size of a watermelon whenever we went on family vacations.

And thanks, Dad, for installing the port-a-potty in the camper. It was so nice knowing that when we were on the road without any way to signal you up front in the cab of the truck, there was a brand-new-never-been-sat-upon toilet just inches away that we were not allowed to use because we would get it dirty. We certainly traveled in comfort.

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Okay. I have to tell this story because it's just too good. Imagine three sisters stuck in a camper in the blazing summer vacation heat of a road trip. Mom and Dad were enjoying the air conditioning up front and we were starting to get loopy, playing poker with Skittles and listening to The Cars repetitively. Did we really only have one cassette on that trip?

One of the little girls had to go. It was No. 2 and it was not going to wait. We held up our "gotta go" sign in the window but Mom was asleep and Dad was in the highway zone. We tried shouting and waving and dancing and jumping and he didn't see us. We shone a flashlight into the rear-view mirror and could actually see it hitting him in the face. But he didn't notice our desperate pleas for attention.

She HAD to go. But do we break a cardinal rule and use the port-a-potty? We were terrified of the consequences of getting the potty wet--let alone filling it up. Under no circumstances were we to utilize said potty. Even when we were in bear-infested woods we had to walk to the outhouse in the middle of the night because the potty was for emergencies only.

Was this an emergency? We didn't know. What to do? In a panic, we looked around for a solution---and we found a big red plastic cup. It would have to do.

She ducked into the closet, squatted astride the potty, and closed the closet door for a little privacy. Ah. Relief shone all over her face when she emerged. But then...

What do you do with a cup of diarrhea?

We again looked around for a place to put it. We couldn't throw it out the window--that would be littering. We couldn't dump it down the sink--we'd surely get into trouble when the drain tube was unfastened. And we didn't have anyplace to set it down--what if it spilled?

We were all feeling her pain, and when she sat down in the total silence of the now-somber camping environment, tears started to trickle quietly down her cheeks. I wanted to comfort her, but--well--she was holding a cup of poop. So I gave her my "I'm really really sorry, and even though I've said some awful things to you in the past, I really do feel for you right now, sis" eyes.

When we finally came to a stop and Dad opened up the camper door, he was handed a cup of poo. And, as I'm sure all of you parents out there can understand, we got in trouble for not using the port-a-potty.

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As an adult, I happily became responsible to find my own relief stations. Yet I found that when one drinks the recommended quantity of water while driving cross-country, there is a vast shortage of rest areas and gas stations and McDonalds. Especially in Wyoming.

There was a day when I was dreaming and wishing and hoping to find a tree or a bush or even a dandelion patch to hide behind. But Wyoming is an unforgiving wasteland of visibility. Come on! I was willing to go outside. In pantyhose even!

But to no avail. There wasn't a town or a rest area or even a tree for miles. And I really had to go.

"I'll just hold it. It'll only be another--what's that sign there?--85 miles. No problem." This is going to be a problem.

"See there, 1 mile down." I'm going to die.

And that big stupid Earth-Destroyer SUV behind me won't get off of my bumper! "Do you think you could possibly drive any closer?!" Idiot.

"Mile 3." Totally going to die.

"And get off of my tail!! What is your problem?"

"Mile 8. See--I can do this." No. I can't.

"Really!! REALLY!! Driving on top of me won't make me go any faster!"

"Mile 9." Ok. I'm done. I have GOT to pee. A turn-out! Just in time. My bladder was going to explode.

"Yeah--get out of here, you stupid SUV!" At least I don't have to deal with that idiot anymore.

I pulled off to the side of the road and took stock of my situation. I had traffic whizzing by me and nowhere to pee outside without giving people X-rated family vacations. But I did have an empty Starbucks frappachino bottle. Salvation!

I took out my map and unfolded it across my lap. I engaged my five years of actor training and looked at it with calm and supposed interest. You see--if I'd looked perplexed or lost, someone may have stopped to give me directions. I instead went for--"Amusing map--perhaps I shall take a new route." Then no one would be compelled by my performance to wish to assist me.

I slipped out of my pantyhose and eased my back up the seat so that I had enough clearance for the bottle--quite a feat in my itty-bitty Hyundai Accent. All the while, I maintained my nonchalant interest in the map taking up most of my front seat.

With a fistfull of napkins I wedged the bottle under me and let loose the floodgates. Ooh! Hold, dump, and repeat. Whew--there was a lot more than just one frappachino in there! Ah.........

My map folded back in my glovebox and my pantyhose adjusted comfortably, I cranked some tunes and hit the road again with a much-relieved bladder. Ah--the call of the open road.

As I rounded the bend, my breath caught in my throat. That big obnoxious SUV was lying on its side and a fleet of emergency vehicles were on the scene.

As I drove by in slow motion, I could see that a Corvette had swerved into the wrong lane of that two-lane highway and smashed directly into the front of that SUV. It had acted like a wedge up under the bumper and just turned the SUV onto its side. The front of the corvette was a bit smashed, but for the most part, it was still intact. And the SUV--although tipped over--didn't show signs of a major impact. All occupants were standing with the officers, and the paramedics had an empty stretcher.

If I hadn't stopped to pee, that would have been me. My little car would have been destroyed in a head-on with that Corvette only a minute later. And possibly me with it. Yet the big huge SUV had only been tipped over.

I sat in stunned silence as I continued on and felt gratitude for my aching bladder. What if?

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I recently told this story to a friend. Knowing about my pulmonary emboli, she said, "You really were meant to be here, huh?"

That got me thinking.

We think about Death as a scary old corpse-ghost-thing in tattered robes wandering around silently pointing out our foibles with long judgmental skeleton fingers. I've met Death. Several times, now that I think about it. And I've realized that my Death isn't grim at all.

I've realized that my Death is an old corpse-ghost-thing wearing a pink and white cheerleading outfit with blonde hair in pigtails and pom-poms. He's not here to point out my mistakes or frighten me. He swings by to cheer me on. "Just reminding you that there's a reason you're alive! Go girl! Keep it up!"

Life is precious. And I'm loving it! And I am thankful that Death stops by now and then to encourage me. I'll have to share my legwarmers with him.