Listen to the author reading this piece:
Our home is seventy-nine years old and in the time she’s been ours, we have scrubbed, sanded, painted and poked at this old girl to bring her up to date. The upper half has improved, but her nether regions leave a lot to be desired. Her clay sewer pipe is long and twists and turns much like the intestine.
Eighteen years living with her bowels have qualified the husband and I as gastroenterologists. She fluctuates between an irritable bowel and constipation with regular predictability. We attempt to watch out for early signs and mitigate risk factors by never buying toilet rolls above a two-ply. But life is busy, so we inevitably ignore the ‘check drains’ reminder on our phones. We have no desire to scratch her underbelly until she insists on it, which she will, with a low threatening glug that portends an eruption.
And there’s a look we give each other then. Weighing up which one of us is more at fault for ignoring the reminders. Then we blame the child because she’s growing up now and also contributing to the pipe. Then we resign ourselves and get the kit. Out come the working clothes, splashed with the various paint figaries of the house. Two pairs of black rubber gloves, heavy duty. Two hoses; but not the power washer. We learnt that lesson the hard way. Then, the heavy lifters from behind the garden shed. The rods.
Like a well-oiled machine, we lift each drain cover and wait for the odd frog to jump out. We put the hoses in place, one at the start and the other second drain from the end. Husband twists the rods together and screws on the suction head first. We are now midwives.
“Can you see the head?” he shouts. I’m out front, on my hunkers, positioned to avoid any splashes. “No, keep pushing”. He adds more rods, and the pipe groans and sucks and delivers a beautiful eight pounder. A great weight. Congratulations to us.
Baby delivered, husband lets out a new string of curses as the rods strain under the next blockage. He changes the head to the metal twirly one. Midwifery complete, we are now Neurologists, about to thrombolyse a stroke. The metal twirly head breaks down the clot into smaller ones that will travel through her artery with ease. Infarction avoided.
‘Clear’ husband shouts from the first drain.
‘Clear’ I reply from the mains.
Defibrillation complete. She is back to life.
We give the last task to our daughter. ‘Flush the toilet’, husband shouts at her. ‘What?’ she replies. ‘Flush the bloody toilet.’ She pauses YouTube, gets up out of her chair and skulks to the bathroom. We’re both exhausted, but this flush is the ultimate inconvenience in a teenager’s life.
We listen and watch. No gurgle. Water flows, turns at the awkward junctions and heads out to the mains. Off to be filtered. Off to the sea.
Husband winds up the hose, packs up the rods and in our love language, says ‘You have your shower first’.
He walks down the garden with the rods, and I watch him go, his broad shoulders, unburdened, as we finish our shift.
Catherine Daly is a writer from Dublin. Her work has been published in The Waxed Lemon, Seawords and Yellow Days. Her first play Deadline, was performed in the Lexicon Theatre, Dun Laoghaire in June 2025. She is working on her first short story collection, entitled Body Parts.