Warning: If you don’t feel like hearing about poop, you’ll probably just want to click on past this post.
I just want you to have no one to blame but yourself.
It’s not baby poop, either.
Okay, so I had one particular task to accomplish this weekend. I needed to poop in a bucket and take a stool sample to my doctor’s office for testing, since she doesn’t think the h-pylori is back, based on my description of the symptoms. (Feeling off in the gut, having very loose poops a couple of times per week.) And because I’ve already been treated for h-pylori, I’ve got the antibodies in my blood and so a blood test wouldn’t diagnose it anyway.
I’ve been carrying around this poop sample kit for 10 days since I saw her, and I cannot time a goddamned poop. I am just not going to carry that big bio-hazard sack into the office with me and cart it down the hallway at any point during the week. And frankly, that’s when my poops come. I have to admit that I’ve been a bit finicky about the whole sampling. I’m not going to collect the poo on Saturday and stick it in the fridge until the office opens back up on Monday. In fact, that sample is going to be FRESH, because it’s not going to sit around anywhere, once it has left my body. That’s why today was perfect–I had the day off of work, but evidently my lower GI-tract did too.
You would think I hadn’t spent the last 38 years doing this very thing on a near-daily basis. I’ll get to the office tomorrow, have just enough time to start my computer, and Godzilla the Monster Turd will give me just enough time to get to the bathroom before destroying Tokyo. Stupid colon.