Flatology

Thirty years ago, my wife and I quit secure teaching jobs and moved into our unfinished house in Harpswell, ME along with a newborn daughter. I fancied myself an aquaculture pioneer, who, along with my two partners, were going to be the oyster barons of Casco Bay. We did realize that it would take some time and a lot of hard work before this came to pass, and also knew that we would not be able to pay ourselves for some time. So, for the first months, the time we still call the “winter of ham hocks and beans” we pulled through as best we could, eating copious amounts of soups made of various dried legumes, government cheese obtained from a senior center and beer made from molasses. I worked nights as a “checker” in the warehouse for LL Bean, a great job for someone with OCD and one weekend a month would travel to Rochester NH where I was commander of a US Army Reserve infantry company. I would spend the two weekend nights on a cot in the armory as the drive back and forth was too long. My days were spent on the water tending to our young oysters.
In the spring, when Heather was old enough to be left at a sitter, Susan got a job working for both the Regional Hospital in Brunswick and Bath Memorial Hospital as the infection control coordinator. I immediately assumed her job was to make sure the infections were equally spread between the two, and the doctors referred to her as “The Bug Lady.” One of her first scores was informing a physician he would wash his hands between patients.
One of the first friends she made was another nurse who had the job of continuing education coordinator. She became a dear friend and would come over to the house with her husband for visits.
On one memorable visit, she either had forgotten what it was I actually did, or wanted to find out just what it was I did, for she asked, “What is it you do?”
Without batting an eye, I replied, “I’m a doctor.”
“Aren’t you going to practice locally?” she asked, without hint of skepticism.
“Well, I’m on a hiatus while I try oyster farming. Besides, my specialty is very narrow, suited mainly for teaching hospitals, but I would be happy to come in and do workshops for the nurses, if you like.”
“What is your specialty?” she asked taking a mouthful of blueberry muffin.
“I’m a flatologist.”
At that point the muffin spewed across the kitchen counter in a spasm of laughter.
“I’m serious,” I said. “It is my experience that nurses are woefully trained in a subject that could be used in evaluation of a patient. I’ll bet you don’t even know what the three cornerstones of the science are.”
She allowed that she didn’t, but that I would probably tell her, and I obliged. “Tone, texture and bouquet,” I said. “Think about it. If people could not pass gas, they would blow up and explode. The human race never would have survived one generation. So, if you detect the hint of a rectal zephyr, don’t be grossed out, nay rejoice, for what you are witnessing is a life being saved.”
I never did give the workshop, although delivered the lecture many times to an adoring public, one of whom was my friend’s daughter. She used it as the core of a high school essay and was awarded an “A.” I realized that had I done the same in my day, I probably would have been suspended from school. How times have changed. And, by the way, the plural of flatus is “flati.”