This is Abby speaking. I’m Pecan’s wife.
We currently live in France, where Pecan is from, but I was born and raised in the USA. My mother believed that, for any bowel issue, an enema could do no wrong — it would “relieve the pressure”. I received a number of them throughout the years.
My husband pointed out to me that some people on Zity received enemas on a schedule (say, once a week) or got them for ailments unrelated to the bowels (say, for any fever), or even for bad behavior. In contrast, some only got them for constipation. In my case, enemas were only in response to bowel issues, in a broad sense: constipation, obviously, but also gas, diarrhea, irritation, queasiness, even nausea.
Enemas generally took place in my parents’ bathroom (my parents had an ensuite bathroom, there was another one for the children and visitors). I was told to disrobe, meaning taking off panties, pajama bottoms, pants, skirt etc., though if I had a loose dress I could just raise it. Sometimes I was told to try to have one last bowel movement before the enema, and I sat on the toilet while mom prepared the gear. Contrary to what some people experienced, a bowel movement at that point would not cancel the enema; it is just that the enema would be easier to accept on an empty rectum.
Mom filled the bag with warm water — she tested the temperature with her hand so that, as she explained to me later, it appeared very slightly above body temperature. If the enema was for bowel irritation she would add baking soda. Mom did not use soap, or perhaps exceptionally. The bag was hung on a towel rack. She would screw the pipe on and flush it, while I was told to assume the position: I knelt on a rug, legs somewhat apart, raised my bottom and lowered my head. Mom then smeared Vaseline on the nozzle and often ended by smearing some on my anus. Then, she inserted the nozzle and undid the clamp.
I don’t remember how she did it when I was little, but when I was older mom filled the whole bag and encouraged me to take as much as possible. I could ask to pause the injection anytime, or even to stop it altogether. It’s just that if mom thought I had stopped it too early to be effective, she would give me another enema after I expelled the first.
Mom sat or knelt behind me, holding the nozzle in. When I was little I saw no wrong in this, but as I grew up I realized that mom, throughout the enema, had a close-up view of my anus and genitals and that the whole pose was rather undignified. I pleaded for getting enemas on a bed, as it had happened sometimes when I was sick; she accepted, but this was not long before she taught me self-administration anyway. I was perhaps 12.
After the enema was injected, I was not made to retain it more than maybe 30 seconds, while mom settled the equipment to dry, and then I would expel it. Mom normally let me expel alone, but it happened that she re-filled the bag while I was on the toilet. She sometimes had a look at the “results”, but not most times. It was long ago and I do not recall the rationale why she did things in one way or the other.
The enema I remember as the worst happened after I felt sick in the car. My stomach was already a bit upset as we got into the car, and motion sickness induced me to vomit. As soon as we got home, I was summoned to the bathroom and told to undress completely — some vomit had got on my clothing. I was told to vomit in the toilet if I still felt like it, and to try to have a bowel movement. I saw mom readying the bag. The last thing I wanted was an enema. I protested. Mom would hear none of it and again told me to sit on the toilet and to try to have a bowel movement. I was then told to get on my knees. I was butt up, my anus offered to the nozzle. I did not want that enema, but I got it nevertheless.
Sometimes, the enema was given over the bed. Mom laid towels on the bed and had me on the left side, a position which I later learned to be known as Sims’. This position was both more comfortable and more dignified, however it required more work from mom (preparing towels) and incurred more risks for her (in case of leaks), so she reserved it for when I was sick. Sometimes it was on the parent’s bed, sometimes on mine, but the latter was not a very good solution either — I had to put my panties back on and then walk the corridor to the main bathroom, where mom had left a note warning my siblings of an impending urgent use.
In the end, mom taught me self-administration. Her method, which she used on herself, was to lay back in the bath, fully naked, legs raised (a position which I would later learned to be quite similar to that of missionary-style intercourse, but I was quite naïve at the time). Leaks were then of little consequence.
Did I hate mom’s enemas? I would not say so; more accurately, I have a rather bittersweet feeling about them. I just disliked some of them: they seemed besides the point. Some were uncomfortable, particularly when expelling. However, quite often, they relieved me. I actually appreciated the feeling of emptying myself when constipated, and the… relaxation? they brought to my irritated bowels sometimes. As I got older, I came not to like the embarrassing posture, the control that I had to give to my mother over my most intimate functions.