The Tim Phelan InterviewSufferers of IBS have no doubt bought books on the subject or searched for any information they can on the internet. There are a great many books on the market, usually dealing with symptoms, medication and diet, which are useful, but before reading Tim Phelan's Romance, Riches and Restroom's, I had never found a book written by some-one telling the story of their life with IBS. Romance, Riches and Restroom's is written in a lively, humorous and often self-depreciating style which can make one cringe with shared sympathy and embarrassment, laugh and consider the trials of living with – and concealing IBS – over many years. As the author had never heard of IBS and did not see a doctor about his problems, he tried to live his life around it. Any-one with IBS knows that it can wholly take over one's routines and everything we do is structured around it, from how much toilet paper we buy to how ( and if ) we travel. Tim Phelan has written openly and intelligently about the life of an ambitious and career-driven young man who found himself ruled by IBS and of the straits he was put to in an effort to hide it from friends, partners, and employers. While the book will make you laugh, it will also have you nodding in personal recognition at the situations he found himself in and the pain and embarrassment which were part of daily life for him for a long time. Click play to watch the interview...
“Engrossing in every sense…Somebody in Hollywood ought to be calling” — Kirkus Discoveries “A hilarious account of one man determined to meet the perfect woman and become filthy rich while attempting to conceal and conquer IBS.” Three months after he lands a job that promises to put him on the fast track to luxury-home ownership and country-club living, Tim’s plans begin to unravel: his brain and digestive tract seem to have entered into a diabolical conspiracy, and they appear hell-bent on destroying his ambitious plans, his confidence, and so much more. But why are they suddenly betraying him at the most inopportune times—like dates and business meetings? Set amid the rigid expectations of a polite society where mentioning bodily functions is taboo, Romance, Riches, and Restrooms is a tragically hilarious memoir about one man’s desperate quest to conceal and conquer irritable bowel syndrome (IBS) before he becomes a penniless hermit. Follow the offbeat odyssey of this buttoned-down bachelor as he struggles to navigate the high-pressure world of investment banking and the image-conscious San Francisco dating scene while secretly experimenting with alternative treatments such as colonic hydrotherapy, hypnosis, building “dams,” and “avalanche blasting.” Will this excessively regular guy find happiness?
From “Hell on Wheels” After feeding my crisp one-dollar bill into the fare slot, I staked out a standing position near the rear door of the nearly filled coach. I felt as if I had mistakenly walked into a photo shoot for a J. Crew or a Brooks Brothers catalog. While everybody looked all-American, this group of young, well-dressed, and mostly white commuters was far from what I’d call a representative slice of America. At each of the remaining five stops along Chestnut Street, an endless stream of these perfect-looking, Stepford commuters piled in. After picking up its final passenger, our bus began the one-mile express leg of our trip downtown. Within three or four minutes, I figured, I would be walking into my new office for my first day of work. Twenty minutes later, and less than a half-mile from my downtown destination, rush-hour traffic had trapped us inside the Broadway tunnel. People began to glance down at their Rolex watches and impatiently tap their Gucci-clad feet. The yuppies were growing restless. Traffic showed no signs of moving, but my bowels were beginning to. Knowing that they’d already performed admirably this morning provided little comfort. As the legal disclaimer that appears in mutual fund advertisements says, past performance is no guarantee of future performance. From “Dam!” Years later, I would look back and recognize this moment as one of many times when the wise course of action would have been to visit a doctor. Back then, however, I’d convinced myself I was the only person on the face of the earth with this peculiar combination of mental and physical issues. Even if I wanted to, how would I begin to explain my unusual-not to mention embarrassing-symptoms? And who exactly would I explain them to? A primary-care physician? A psychiatrist? A proctologist? No thanks. So instead, applying a modicum of intrinsic male logic, I crafted a solution that was as ingenious as it was straightforward. To keep my gastrointestinal tract from spilling its contents all over my life, I would head down to the store, pick up some supplies, and build a dam. Imodium was a product I’d heard of but had not yet tried. “Maximum Strength!” the label exclaimed. Also printed in a billboard-sized font for the entire world to see was “Anti-Diarrheal.” And just in case that didn’t quite spell things out, an additional line of oversized copy offered further clarification: “Controls the symptoms of diarrhea.” Well, nobody could mistake what this stuff was for. Like a condom, Imodium has but one use. The mere possession of this product announces to one and all, “Hey, keep your distance, and nobody gets hurt.”
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