The Diabolical Jerkbacks

The year was 1986. Ronald Reagan had traded acting for politics. Michael Jackson was readying the release of a follow-up to the immensely successful Thriller. I was in second grade.

Living in Las Vegas at the time, I enjoyed the rigors of grade-school academics. Honors and science-fair blue ribbons for superb volcano creations were just some of the accolades I had achieved at this young age. School yard chums and “yes or no” box-checking-crushes were not beyond me either.

However, not everything was smooth sailing; in fact, some things wee too smooth to enjoy. At an early age, we discovered I was allergic to gluten. This ruled out any possibility of eating grained goods. My stomach was very volatile and sensitive. Even the smallest piece of bread would send me running to the bathroom, hoping to make it there in time. This caused serious concern in my day to day activities, especially when I was away from the comforts of my home and bathroom.

One day I found myself sitting in class, quietly taking a vocabulary test with my fellow classmates. We had just come in from lunch. Cautiously matching the right definition with the right word, my concentration was suddenly broken by the all too familiar rumblings of my stomach. The flood gates were about to rip open. I didn’t have much time. I rose quickly from my chair and headed toward the teacher’s desk. She gave me permission to go, and I wasted no time leaving.

All had gone well. I sat back down in my chair and resumed spelling. Not more than ten minutes later, the rumblings returned. This couldn’t have been a worse time for an episode like this. I quickly jolted myself to the front of the room, once again pleading for permission to go to the bathroom. This time the teacher looked skeptically into my watery eyes. The answer was no. I had just come back from a bathroom trip and any reason to leave now was purely for juvenile no-goodery —at least that was her understanding and logic.

I returned to my desk, head lowered and worried. I didn’t know what to do. The pressure amassed in my stomach like an army attempting to break through the castle doors. My palms were sweaty, my forehead glossy with a mix of perspiration and anxiety. Then, without warning, the troops burst through the door. The castle had been breached. I had gone to the bathroom without leaving the confines of the classroom or my chair. The battle was lost.
I carefully made my way to the teacher’s desk for a third visit. This time I kept things short, sweet, and to the point. “Teacher, may I go call my mom? I need a change of pants.”

Besides me, the teacher, and my mother, no one ever knew what had taken place that tragic day. I can’t say I was embarrassed really, more discouraged than anything. It was quite the traumatic experience for a seven year old.

I have since overcome that particular allergy and am proud to say I have been nearly accident free for quite some time now —fingers crossed.