Jentastic vs. the Bag of Poop

I've always sort of been a medical freakshow. Anything that can go wrong will, and has. Last year, I had all sorts of weird things going on that couldn't be directly attributed to my already-diagnosed chronic health issues. After upping my medications didn't work, my gastroenterologist (who is an awesome guy) decided that it was time for more testing. I shall let this song from the phenomenal musical episode of "Scrubs" explain the situation:

Yup. Stool sample time! I vaguely remember having done one in middle school when I had a parasite, but that was well over ten years ago. I set out for the doctor's office to get the equipment, planned on heading to my parents' house to knock one out (I had to pick up some other stuff there anyway), drop it off at a lab on my way back home, and be done with it. Nope. No such luck.

At the doctor's office, I picked up a prescription for the kit. I didn't know I needed a prescription for jars to poop in, but I guess it makes sense that I'd need specific instructions. There was a lab nearby where I'd gotten some bloodwork done before, so I went there next. The lab tech took the prescription, gathered the necessary materials, and told me I'd need to collect samples from three different times, with two containers each (the little plastic containers were filled with various liquids). Then one of those times, I'd have to fill a third container. Okay. Sure.

I proceeded to my parents' house. My father never fails me and I found a box of latex gloves, from which I grabbed four pairs. My piddly apartment was not outfitted for poop collection at that time, so I took a spare basin as well. Back at home, I cut a large garbage bag into strips, lined the basin with the first wide strip, and stuck it in the bathtub for when the spirit moved me/my bowels.

An hour or so later, it was go time. I ran into the bathroom, realized that I was worried about splatter, stripped naked, and squatted over the plastic-lined basin in my tub. This was one of those life-defining moments where I pondered how, exactly, I had wound up in that precise position. My life sucks. I did my thing, and then it was collection time.

The creators of this medical equipment should be shot for how ineffective it is. There was a plastic spoon attached to the inside of each lid, but it was TINY. I didn't want to dirty any of my actual eating utensils, so I sat there, spooning poop into a plastic jar scoop by tiny little scoop. It took at least 20 minutes to collect a sample and dispose of the leftovers. My life sucks even more.

This process was repeated twice more that evening and the next morning. To my credit, I kept the poop in the plastic bag the kit came with and stashed it in the cabinet so Husband wouldn't freak out. I also double-bagged all the garbage bag strips once I was done with them. I should also point out that I wrote my name and the date on each jar before I filled it. Sometimes I plan ahead.

It was time to make the deposit (har har har!). I had a prescription for another medication to fill, so my plan was 1) drop off the prescription at the pharmacy/grocery store, 2) drive two towns over to drop off the bag of poop, 3) return to the pharmacy/grocery store to get the pills and some needed food, 4) profit chill out for the rest of the day. I thought it was a pretty good plan.

So obviously, it was going to get fucked up. I drove to the store and wondered if I should leave the bag of poop (brightly labeled with the biohazard symbol) in the hot car or carry it in with me. I chose to leave it in the car. Naturally, there was a clusterfuck at the pharmacy when this woman with her forty screaming children didn't seem to understand that she actually needed a prescription for insulin and the pharmacists couldn't just give it to her. Super. I worried about the poop somehow spoiling out in the heat.

I finally gave them the prescription, went back to the car, and drove to the nearest lab location. I went inside, and despite the fact that NO ONE was in there, I was directed to have a seat in the (empty) waiting room. I was tempted to plop the bag of poop on the chair next to me, but I was well-behaved, and I kept it on the floor at my feet.

A lab tech finally came out from her cigarette break high-stakes poker game open heart surgery whatever it was she was doing and ushered me into a room. I handed her whatever paperwork I had and began neatly lining up the containers of poop on the counter. She asked for my insurance card and I gave it to her. "Oh, we don't take this insurance."

Whut.

Thanks to the one good bit of legislation our idiot former governor passed, I was back on Daddy's health insurance. And Daddy's insurance was a damn good plan. It was like the Cadillac of health insurance. And this bitch was telling me that she wouldn't accept it, or my bag of poop. In thinking back, I realized that I hadn't been to that lab company since switching insurance. Fuck.

I must have looked completely distraught, so the lab tech said she knew which labs took my insurance, and she had a list of locations/directions. I piled the poop back into the bag, and she came back with a photocopy and handed it to me. I looked at it, and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

The lab was literally across the street from my goddamn house. If I opened my curtains right now, I would be able to see it. What. The. FUCK.

I thanked her, and my bag of poop and I got back into the car and went back to the pharmacy/grocery store. I left the bag of poop in the car again, and picked up my pills and groceries without incident. Upon returning home, I brought the groceries upstairs, put them away, pooped again (I was sick, remember?), and then WALKED THE BAG OF POOP ACROSS THE STREET. As Husband pointed out, I should have just walked over there a few times to poop in their lab and saved a lot of hassle.

To satisfy your curiosity, the well-traveled bag of poop revealed I had c. diff in my colon. It apparently can pop up after a heavy dose of antibiotics, but I hadn't had any for at least 3-4 months before that. I told you, medical freakshow. Anyway, the angry little bacteria triggered a flare of my Crohn's Disease, and my colon then tried to eat itself, but once I was properly medicated, it was all good. I'm still trying to figure out who the real winner was, though.