Bedlets: Or, I Hope, the Last Time I'll Ever Blog About Bodily Functions

If you can't stomach a little toilet humor, feel free to skip this entry. Apologies in advance.

A while back, I wrote about my uncomfortable hospital bed. It was so hard and small that I had to put two together, which might have worked if they weren't an inch or two apart in height. During my three years here in Japan, I've had my fair share of experiences with beds.

Japanese people have traditionally slept on thin bedrolls called futons, which are much different than the futons I saw back home. Japanese futons aren't cheap, couch-like pieces of furniture that starving college students sleep on. They're basically 1 or 2 inch-thick mats that go on the tatami floors and are covered by some kind of sheet. People typically have a blanket--either a comforter a bit wider than the futon, or a beach towel-ish blanket called a towelket (a Japanese portmanteau of "towel" and "blanket"). While many people have adopted western-style beds, the majority still use futons, due in part to a lack of space in Japanese homes. Beds take up a lot of space, and can't be stuffed into the closet during the day to open up a room.

As a solution, many Japanese people purchase sofa beds. They aren't like the old sofa beds I knew growing up, where the bed folds away into a cavity underneath the couch cushions. Instead, they are typically low to the ground (like most Japanese furniture intended for sitting) and have adjustable backs, which can change from what's close to a 90% angle to a fully reclined, flat position. While not as comfortable as a pillow-top mattress with a box spring, they are often more comfortable than just sleeping on the glorified blanket otherwise known as a futon.

Last year, when Mom and Rory came to visit, they bought a sofa bed at Hard Off, a thrift store chain with a well-stocked location close to our apartment. It was a bit of a tight fit for them, but they managed to sleep better than they would have on the futons we had provided. When they left, we tried to use it as a bed, but it was a little too narrow for our liking. If we had another one about the same height, we figured, we could put them together, lay some futons on top of them, and basically have a California king bed in our room. It worked in theory.

When we actually got the second sofa bed and got it home, we found that it was actually about three inches higher than the old one. No problem, we thought. All we had to do was put another futon or two on lower one, and they'd be just about even. Doing just that, we made it work for a while, though one side of the massive bed was always firmer than the other. Eventually we got tired of the complete lack of space in our bedroom and decided that a change was in order.

We put the firmer and taller of the two sofa beds up into sofa position, and pushed it against the paper doors (partly to hide the giant holes that our kids ripped in them), moving the other one up against the base of it. We stacked the futons on to make it level, and put our pillows on the sofa section. While that configuration was quite wide, it unfortunately wasn't long enough for me. I even tried a diagonal position, but my feet always ended up on the ground. I felt like Ned from One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish.

Who am I? My name is Ned.

I do not like my little bed.

This is no good.

This is not right.

My feet stick out of bed all night.

And when I pull them in, Oh, dear!

My head sticks out of bed up here!

We ended up sleeping vertically on the lower bed, with one of us lying up against the crevice between the two beds. It was actually quite comfortable. When Mom came out last month, however, we gave her the lower bed back and kept the other one in sofa form, electing to sleep directly on the futons. It's not so bad--we sleep pretty well most of the time.

We find it a hassle to put our futons away every day, so we leave them out. This attracts all sorts of dirt and crumbs from the kids, which gets quite annoying. Also frustrating is the fact that it's much harder to get out of a bed that's laying directly on the floor than one that you can just roll out of.

Japanese people customarily sit directly on tatami (or on a zabuton, an inch-thick square mat), which I can't stand, having grown up with plush carpet and comfortable sofas. With kids, I have to be ready to get up and help at the drop of a hat. It's difficult for me to do that when I'm laying or sitting on the ground. Being such a tall guy, it takes precisely 3.74 seconds for my brain to communicate to my heart that it actually needs some blood to function. Getting up too quickly causes me to black out; I don't actually faint, but everything goes black and I momentarily lose my inhibitions. Just ask Stef or Mom--I say some pretty silly stuff in the 5-some seconds before the blood makes it to my brain.

Stef and I both agree that it will be nice to have furniture once we get back. Couches, comfortable beds, and carpet--these are all things for which the typical ex-pat yearns. We are no exception. It's neat that, as a whole, the Japanese cherish their past. But it seems so striking that in this country where technology is king, people still sleep on the floor and have paper doors.

Then there's the issue of toilets. Ah, toilets--perhaps the most stark reminder of Japan's dual nature. On one side, you've got squatters. Holes in the ground. Holes in the ground above which you must squat. There's no way to lessen the stomach-churning imagery that arises when you think of or say the word "squatter."

We've got an old apartment, so we're stuck with a squatter. It's actually a step up from the ground, and there's a good 3 feet between the step and the far wall, so we were able to use a plastic seat and convert it to a western-style toilet. It's not quite as comfortable as a standard toilet in America, but it's better than a hole in the ground.

Our friend Paul, who lives in the same building, is not so lucky. He's got the same configuration, minus about 2 feet of space. He's only got about a foot, so it's quite inconvenient for him to use. The following, I believe, was meant to be included in One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish:

Who am I? My name is Paul.
I do not like my little stall.
This is no good.
This is not right,
It's really hard to pee at night.
And when I sit, it's knees-on-wall.
I do not like my stall at all.

Most business establishments these days have a western style toilet or two to go along with the squatters, but there are still plenty of places that have yet to upgrade. Typically, if there's no western style toilet, you can just hold it until you get somewhere else. On a train, however, there's nowhere else to go. I was once faced with the misfortune of having to use a squatter on a train. It's what I believe Sam I Am was referring to when he asked:

A train! A train!
A train! A train!
Could you, would you on a train?

No. You couldn't. You wouldn't. On a train. If there's one thing worse than having to use a squatter, it's having to use a squatter on a train. Or genocide. That's also worse. Or shredding the roof of your mouth on dozens of tiny, whole dried fish that you're forced to eat in front of the children. Okay, so there are a lot of things that are worse than using a squatter. But still, pray that you never have to use a squatter on a train.

On the complete opposite end of the spectrum, you've got RoboToilet (the official name is Washlet, another portmanteau). While I was staying with Mia at the hospital, I became intimately acquainted with a toilet which, if we're not careful, could likely end up enslaving the world. When I walked in the bathroom, the toilet would sense my presence and open the top lid, ready to do business. With the simple press of a button on a separate, radio-controlled panel, I could tell it that I wasn't ready for any complicated transactions and just needed it to open all the way. When the transaction was complete, it would automatically flush, and then close after a few minutes, lest it accidentally close business in the middle of a transaction.

Some of RoboToilet's other features include water sprays with adjustable trajectories and pressure levels, as well a heated seat. It's really strange to see such an advanced toilet in one place, and then in the same hospital, have a hole in the ground. No matter how many times I use the latter, it doesn't grow on me.

That's not to say that RoboToilet is perfect. RoboToilet is so environmentally conscious that the limited space inside can cause friction in our relationship. Sometimes, at night, I'm so tired that my marksmanship takes a serious hit. As a courtesy to Stef and other people living with me, I choose to sit. With RoboToilet's auto-flush feature, the lack of "depth" toward the front of the bowl leads to some serious breaches of trust. On more than one occasion, RoboToilet decided to finish the transaction early, causing an unexpected flow of frigid water to parts best left unmentioned.

Another inconvenient part of Japanese bathrooms is the need to switch shoes. People here are always switching shoes--when you walk into a home or school, you take off your shoes and put on slippers or other shoes that you only use indoors. When you go to the bathroom, however, you have to change out of the indoor shoes and into some bathroom slippers, which are always way too small for my feet. Sometimes, when the kids are cleaning the bathrooms during their designated cleaning time, they hose down the slippers as well, making for a happy little surprise when you slip your nice, dry socks into them.

Alas, school bathrooms are pretty much the worst part about working at a school. I love kids. I can deal with rowdiness. Most everything about working at schools in Japan has become enjoyable. But bathrooms remain the most difficult challenge for me. Why? It starts with the doors.

Elementary school bathrooms rarely have doors. Anyone can and will watch you go to the bathroom. There are no half-walls to buffer each urinal, and the urinals are in plain view from the doorway, which is in the main hallway. Coworkers and students, both male and female, can see you using the urinal.

To make things worse, the bathrooms for both boys and girls sometimes have the same entrance. You switch into slippers, and then go straight into the urinals right in front of you, or go around the corner to the girls' bathroom if you're female. Either way, you've got to put the slippers on in front of a row of peeing boys. That's got to be uncomfortable for the girls.

Because they're built not just for kids, but Japanese kids, they're extremely short. So short, in fact, that the top of the flusher handle, which is connected to a pipe about 5 inches above the top of the urinal, is lower than my waist. Since I'm so tall, the only way to "hide myself" from the world is to bend my knees and hunch over. Not even this keeps kids from wanting to watch me go.

Today, I was being mobbed by a crowd of excited first graders, when I realized that I had to go to the bathroom. When some of the kids seemed ready to follow me in, I elected to use the squatter stall, even if it wasn't necessary. It was not the first time I've done that--I value my privacy.

At one of my schools, we have a couple kids with learning disabilities, including one boy with Down Syndrome. One time, while I discretely used the bathroom, this sweet boy, with absolutely no ill intentions, walked right up to me and started watching me. I asked him to let me be alone for a minute, to which he responded by sticking his face up near the small space between me and the porcelain. I was so shocked by this that I stopped what I was doing, picked him up and moved him out of the bathroom, and sharply told him to return to his class.

Another time, at the same school, a different kid from the special education class (which is directly adjacent to the bathroom) came and started chatting with me while I was trying to use the bathroom.

"Hey! It's Jesse-Sensei!"

"Yep. That's me."

"Whoa, you're tall!"

"Yep. Mind if I have a moment here?"

"So, anything come out yet?"

"Not yet. And it probably won't if you're watching me. Would you please leave me be for a moment?"

Japan's openness about using the bathroom has been eye-opening. Women have no problem discussing their level of regularity--it's a common topic of conversation. I can't count how many children's books I've seen that focus on using the toilet. Everyone Poops, perhaps the most famous children's book on the subject, was originally written in Japanese. They openly talk to kids about what they need to do to ensure that the plumbing works properly.

That's not necessarily such a bad thing--it's just so different than everything I've ever known. The only time I ever feel comfortable talking about the subject is when I'm discussing my baby's diapers or children who have wet the bed. Incidentally, as I took a short break from writing this last paragraph to change my son's diaper, he peed all over me and my bed for the first time ever. Maybe the Japanese know what they're doing. Perhaps one day, the Japanese will invent the bedlet. I know my kids would use one.

Health Checks in Japan

Each year in Japan, employees have a mandatory health check. Last week, I had mine for the first time. I'd heard horror stories about people having to do strange things like stand naked in line with coworkers of the same sex or drink barium sulfate before being spun around on a Gravitron-esque x-ray machine. Aside from some crazy procedures for waste samples, I'm relieved to say that I didn't experience too much weirdness.

When my supervisor walked all of us through the initial paperwork, I was surprised to hear some invasive medical health questions that seemed irrelevant. Why do they need to know if I've ever (like, ever, once in my life, even in years past) had a hemorrhoid? How could that possibly help them to understand anything about my current physical condition?

As uncomfortable as it was for me to hear these questions from my supervisor, it must've really sucked to be him and have to explain everything. And it must really suck to be anybody who reads the rest of this blog entry.

Along with the medical history paperwork, we each received our own do-it-yourself stool and urine sample kit, complete with instructions--one page of which doubles as a stool catcher. These instructions are very specific and provide clear directions on how and where to go. Here's a scan of the aforementioned stool catcher.



The writing in the box, "この面を上にしてお使いください" basically says, "Please go on top of this side of the page." The placement of the paper depends on whether you are using a western-style toilet or a Japanese-style squatter. That little guy--we'll call him Poo-san--is actually the bull's eye of a target.

I don't know what's worse: the fact that Poo-san is blissfully standing and waving at me, or the fact that he's green. This color is not only unnatural, but it was also confusing to me when it came time to sort everything out.

Once you have some data to work with (read: poop), you can consult the following guide, entitled The Correct Way to Collect a Stool, for proper technique on obtaining an effective sample.



I'll defer to the diagram if you need to know the next few steps. You'd think it's bad enough that they make you collect your own samples at home. But they make you do it twice, including once on the day before your health check. So you have to have a sample sitting around the house for at least 24 hours. Not that we don't already have plenty of "data" in the diaper bins already.

The "sample" in section 2 is yellow and orange, which is in stark contrast to the viridescence of Poo-san. Ms. Poo, our little "correct answer" sign-holding friend in the bottom-left corner, is pink. I've heard that people who have to drink the barium sulfate solution have stools as white as the driven snow for up to three days. In a land of blue hair (you gotta have blue hair), I shouldn't be surprised at such a wide spectrum of poo hues.

How'd you like to be the person whose job it is to prepare 'how to poo' diagrams? I like to imagine a chipper Japanese woman in her forties presenting the new poo sheet design in PowerPoint to a room full of hardened, middle-aged salarymen, all nodding seriously.

I have a pretty weak stomach, which can be difficult in a land of people seemingly immune to the poop-induced gag reflex. For some reason, they embrace poop out here (well, not literally--though you never, never know). When your kids have soiled diapers in Japan, you have to physically take the poop out and wash it down the toilet before throwing the diaper out with the burnable trash. Popular Japanese video games like Blue Dragon feature characters made of poo, like the Poo Snake.



Online stores in Japan sell a wide range of poo-themed products, like these fashionable hair pins at a Yahoo! shopping store.



You may not know it, but the children's book Everyone Poops is actually a translation of a Japanese book called Minna Unchi.

My supervisor explained that the stool samples, once collected from the green Poo-san paper and labeled, are placed in a green plastic bag and again labeled. That bag goes inside a green paper envelope with my name and info printed on the outside. Upon hearing our displeasure about having to collect our own samples, our supervisor inquired incredulously, "You mean you don't have to poo on a stick every year as part of your job in America?"

For the urine sample, there's a sheet of paper with instructions on how to fold it into a cup to be used for catching the sample.



Origami is fun! Hooray for health checks! The origami cup comes with a little squeeze bottle like the ones they use for soy sauce in bento lunches. I should start a lucrative urine sample/soy sauce bottle recycling business. Once you've got the sample, you label it and put in in a yellow envelope with your pre-printed info.

Yellow goes with yellow and green (or pink/brown/white/yellow/orange, if you want to get technical) goes with green. Sounds logical, right? Well, it's not. My supervisor was wrong about the colors. When I went to get my health check, the people at the reception desk took everything out and switched it around. The urine goes in the green paper envelope, and the stool samples go inside the yellow one. It makes perfect sense. They placed my samples in a huge plastic bag with hundreds of other envelopes. There's something about a whole bunch of people walking around with their own feces that makes my stomach churn.

The rest of the check-up was your standard, wait-in-line stuff. Being my first time, I didn't really know what each procedure entailed. There weren't any signs or arrows guiding us through the building; we were supposed to already know where to go next. If I had done this multiple times already, I'm sure it would've seemed less confusing.

We all went from station to station, shifting over one chair at a time while we waited for vacancies in each test booth. They tested my vision and hearing first. Everything was fine, except for when I stared into some weird eye machine, not knowing what to expect. I asked the doctor what I was supposed to be doing inside the hooded enclosure, and he just told me to be patient since it was all going to be over soon. Out of nowhere, a bright light flashed and my eyes went crazy. I think I may have killed a man in the ensuing daze. Or maybe I just couldn't see straight for a bit. It was one of those two things.

They measured my height and weight, and then calculated my BMI score. I got a chest x-ray, had some blood drawn, had my waist measured, got my heart and lungs checked out with a stethoscope, and even got some weird electrodes stuck to my chest for some sort of heart reading.

I heard a story of one foreign teacher who was so hairy that they couldn't get the electrodes to stick. They had no idea what to do with body hair and ended up forgoing the test altogether. Luckily, my chest is more badlands than jungle--so I had nothing to worry about.

All in all, the procedures weren't so bad. It's probably good for people to have regular health checks. But I definitely could've gone without the "data" extraction procedure.