Lately, some of my new friends in Sevilla have asked why I am so uncensored, vulgar, blunt, bold, dirty, just to name a few. Well, I’ve decided to take a closer look at myself in order to explain this recent phenomenon, for I haven’t always been able to declare information regarding my bodily functions, for example. Why then, do I have no qualms being so open about it now? I think it has to do with the fact that over the past few years, I have been mastering the art of living with a bad stomach while consequently trying to avoid awkward situations.
That’s right, my stomach is bad. So bad, that sometimes I just have to punish it with various lactose-laden delicacies such as icecream or pizza – I tell you, that will really set it off. So what good has this bad stomach brought about? First, it has honed my conversation skills. I am continuously attempting to communicate its every caprice to people around me. Second, it has forced me to accept and become more comfortable with who I am. Chronic stomach problems have become an integral part of my daily life so, there is really no use hiding it. When I sometimes blurt out that the gases are building within me or that I’m the Queen of the Stool Samples, people gawk, look uneasy, and secretly pray I’ll spare them the details. However, this essay is the opportune moment for me to hash out the whole history about how three stool samples have made me the person I am today.
When I had my first “parasite,” I was with my boyfriend, Skye. Luckily, he had stomach problems too and could really commiserate. Also, his parents were doctors, so he was supportive of open communication about what effects our stomachs were habitually having on us. Speaking of these matters with a boyfriend is clearly a bonding experience, not to mention, wildly romantic. At a certain point, we would just let them rip around each other. For health’s sake, we couldn’t hold all that hot air within! Crude, you probably think. Well, we’d laugh until we’d cry, and those were some liberating and carefree days. However, when I couldn’t live with the nausea brought on by the “parasite”, my doctor ordered me to do my first stool sample – I was 20 years old.
Skye was there with me to facilitate process. He had done it before, so I let him take the reins. He set up the plastic wrap that was placed loosely over the toilet bowl and laid out all my test tubes, each one equipped with a small spork and with different color pastel caps. I swear he wanted to stay with me in the bathroom as I executed the repugnant function. My first stool sample was unforgettably disgusting. I went through with it, shrieking with every sporkful, while my cheerleader kept trying to peak in the window, shouting words of encouragement, “You got it? You’re almost there! Atta girl,” then later roaring in disbelief: “Oh god, the SMELL!”
I don’t think there is anything as base and downright dehumanizing as having to handle your own feces. No, but really, it’s horrific. That day brought Skye and I closer than we’d ever been.
After I received the results of my tests, they clamed they had found some Blastocystitis cells which indicated there was some sort of parasite/bacteria in my stomach, though it was unidentifiable. Thank you doctors for your overwhelming specificity, by the way. So per doctor recommendation, I was meant to take the strongest antibiotic imaginable, Flagyl, for ten days. The side affects of this drug are severe: from cramping/bloating, to feeling nauseous, headaches, soreness all over, vomiting, you name it. One afternoon, I ate some teryaki tofu for lunch then headed out for a bike ride with Skye. I think we made it all of ten minutes biking, when I had to pull over due to an extreme bout of nausea. I stopped in the Armstrong Estates Park (Sonoma’s richest neighborhood), and I sat and took deep breaths. Skye rushed home to retrieve his mom’s blue Sienna van. Mind you, his mother wasn’t too fond of the fact that we were spending so much time together. She was concerned that I was hindering his progress with his Engineering degree, and I was always worried he’d agree with her. Well, that day I really fueled her fire. Skye hurried back to me with the van, and I cautiously climbed in. It wasn’t two seconds after we started moving that I threw up tofu chunks all over the front of the car, leaving a putrid smell of teryaki and bile for months…. Oh, the humiliation…
Skye and I didn’t work out as a couple, but he is still my best friend and number one go-to person when I am having issues with the volatile beast inside me. We still love to get graphic about our stomachs and the uncomfortable situations they create for us (especially with the opposite sex); something we will forever have in common…
The next lucky man to date me was a German. Tobi also had doctor parents, and he himself had been an EMT for two years. Thus, he bore witness to many gross incidences involving people and their, ahem, bodily expulsions. Thankfully, nothing really fazed him, and he accepted me for who I was, shaky stomach and all.
Another serious stomach episode occurred while I was visiting Tobi one weekend in Berlin. I was living and teaching English in France at the time and had to undertake a massive journey to get to him. I had finally reached his apartment after having traveled one hour by train, twenty minutes by bus, two hours flying, and finally a thirty minute metro ride. Once in his apartment, I suddenly experienced an onset of chills and a severe drop in body temperature. Tobi, sitting at his computer and thinking I was just being the drama queen that I was, ignored my repetitive cries from his bed, “BABY, I’m cold, I’m soo cold… I don’t FEEL good”. Tobs eventually got that this wasn’t my normal behavior, and as he walked out to the street to hail a cab to the hospital, I felt a sharp twang in my stomach and the urge to get to a bathroom immediately – As Tobi lived in the Turkish neighborhood in Berlin, I dashed into the nearest kebab shop, and spent about fifteen minutes of hell in the bathroom. Weak and delirious, I stumbled out, made it about two steps onto the sidewalk when I suddenly passed out. I woke up sprawled out on the table of the kebab shop, surrounded by strange people, and Tobi, looking seriously concerned. I was sure that he had yelled, “Don’t die!” And I thought to myself, “Is this really the way I’m going to go? My stomach? The little bastard…” Apparently, he had said something in German that resembled, “Don’t die” in English, so I was probably just hallucinating, or something… Eventually an ambulance picked me up, and I spent the night in this ghetto hospital down the street, hooked up to an IV, with my faithful boyfriend doing all the talking. What I remember most is the nurse speaking the softest and most soothing German I had ever heard. What I also vividly remember is waking up around 5 am with Tobi sleeping in the chair next to my hospital bed, making a mad dash for the bathroom and then, not making it. Sigh… For the following five days, my poor boyfriend had to witness what no man wants to believe his woman his capable of.
And yet, as a constant victim of a hot-blooded stomach, you have no choice but to keep your head up, try to maintain some shred of dignity and of course not to lose your shit.
When I finally made it back to France, I had a visit with Madame Jarry, my butch and intimidating French doctor. She mentioned that I might have caught some “African” stomach virus going around. Yep, that’s what it was, c’est clair. She quickly prescribed me some heavy-duty antibiotics, which were replete with fun side affects like the probability of tearing your Achilles heel if you were to do any exercise. By the by, she told me to take it easy for seven days, and follow the program, only to then send me to the lab for….you got it! Stool samples take two!
Again? And in a foreign country? Shit… She told me to go to the lab next door and to show them the paper she had scribbled for me. They would then explain what steps to take in order to correctly collect my stools. As if I didn’t know… Chuckling to myself because I would have to conduct this conversation in French, I walked down to the lab and handed over the paper. The woman at the counter smirked and handed me all of the equipment in the least discreet way possible, taking her sweet time while pointing out the function of each little vile: “And this big container you need to fill up to this line, and these little containers with the liquid also need to be filled. Remember, the specimens need to be stored in the freezer if you aren’t planning to bring them back today. This large round plastic tub will be used to catch them. Use the forks to…” “Ouais ouais ouais, merci beaucoup. C’est bon.” God, the French and the sick pleasure they derive from public humiliation.
I was dreading the return to my apartment where I’d have to execute the process with my roommates present. It’s absolutely mortifying having to subject people who don’t romantically and unconditionally love you to this kind of thing. And what’s more, having to carry back the stool samples on the bus after having stored them in our freezer… These self-pitying thoughts were interrupted when suddenly I felt a little cramp zing. With newfound inspiration, I rushed back into the lab, pushed aside the three people in line ahead of me and cried aloud to the woman at the counter: “J’ai envie de le faire maintenant!” (I have the urge to go now!) She escorted me quickly to the bathroom, and thanks to Dieu, I was in and out of there in ten minutes. Mission Accomplished and another shining example of the gradual deterioration of my superego. Free the id!
Two weeks later, I was summoned back to Madame Jarry’s office, accompanied by my sassy French mother, Marie, who was to help me get to the bottom of my stomach problems. I’ll admit, I was surprised to hear them tell me that all was perfectly normal except for apparently some little mushrooms that were floating around in there. Lost in translation?
On the topic of mushrooms, unfortunately, I am a big eater. I’m a lover of delicious food, a “gourmande” as the French like to call it. I’m also crazy about traveling. Traveling and eating combined are orgasmic experiences for me. There is nothing better than feasting on a regional specialty like a steaming hot tajine in a Moroccan medina, or a truffle omelette in the backwoods of the French countryside. Anyway, through my travels and experiments with sundry foods, my stomach has grown more sensitive and exceedingly unstable.
Speaking of Moroccan tajines, let’s just say my trip to Morocco was a beautiful assault on the senses, and a not-so-beautiful assault on the bowels. I did self-reflect before my weeklong travel experience: Am I really going to let all of these exotic foods pass me by, just to eat bland and packaged foods and play it safe? No: Because eating is half the joy of traveling. And you know what? Though at the end, I was paying the consequences, I was also given the important opportunity to get to know the bathrooms in another country! Squatting over a bottomless hole for hours on end is a priceless cultural experience.
My first year living in Spain went fabulously, stomach-wise. However, when I returned to the States for the summer months, things hadn’t been functioning so well. I decided to visit my doctor at Kaiser for the umpteenth time. She told me, in all seriousness, that I most likely had developed a traveler’s stomach, basically a stomach that has become sensitive due to all of the varying environments to which it’s been exposed. Oh, and all the antiobiotics had definitely made me lactose intolerant. I remember my dad being real supportive about this discovery as he gulpled a glass of chocolate milk, “I could NEVER imagine living without dairy.” In any case, my doctor bellowed in her thick Belarussian accent, “LET’S HAVE YOU DO A STOOL SAMPLE.”
Third time is a charm. This time, I was actually going to approach it with a fresh mindset. In fact, I was going to have fun while doing it, because, well, didn’t I deserve to have a little fun? I felt like a jaded and badass senior in high school when I got down to the lab. I rolled in, wearing my Ray Bans, dangling the doctor’s note loosely from my hands, and scoffing at all the newbies looking awkward in line. I was super chillaxed and casual when I finally reached the front desk lady.
I handed over my Kaiser card and unflinchingly stated, “I need to do a stool sample.” She made eye contact with me and gave me a sympathetic half-smile. I smiled broadly right back at her. “Not to worry, I know exactly what I’m doing. So, can I get it done with in that bathroom over there?” “OF COURSE you can,” she responded, and very tactfully slipped me all of my materials in a big brown paper bag. We whispered back and forth as though we were in cahoots. “I’m cool, I’m nonchalant,” I thought to myself, and then bee-lined it to the bathroom.
I spent about fifteen minutes in that white, sterile lab bathroom, and for the first time in my life, had trouble performing the necessary duty. This was quite perplexing because usually I can perform on command. I gave my lower abdomen a pep talk: Come on, little guy, don’t fail me now. Sweet Jesus, come on, come out!! Should I sing myself a song? Should I meditate on the toilet? Nothing seemed to work… As it turned out, sweet-talking the little bellicose monster didn’t do much good at all. I guessed I’d have to try a harsher method. I left the bathroom, shrugged at the front desk lady, but decided not to drive all the way back home without getting this done with.
I headed to the cafeteria to drink a strong coffee and buy a bagel with cream cheese. I went heavy on the cheese to really aggravate my tum. Then, it was a matter of clockwork. While I waited for the coffee/bagel to take action, I basked outside in the warm summer sun. At this point, I decided to call Skye for old time’s sake.
“Hey you! Guess where I am?”
“Hey Chunks! Where?”
“Kaiser…doing….guess what.”
“Uh oh, does somebody have a tummy ache again?”
“HAHA yea, again! And right now I’m waiting for inspiration! I just drank a coffee and had a bagel with extra cream cheese. HAHAHA. This is gonna be insane…”
“Wow, yeah, get ‘er done! So what’s going on?”
“Oh god, well I went to talk to your dad. He said it might be IBS. But what the fuck? I’m not even stressed out. All I know is, that since I got back to the States, it has been really screwed up”
“Well, I feel your pain… I ate some Mexican food yesterday and suffered some gnarley consequences…Did you finally give up dairy?”
“Yeah, I have to. That’s the number one culprit. Dude, my life is a joke. I’m just chilling at the doctor’s waiting for my bowels to move and I’m talking to you on the phone about it. My life is a JOKE”
Kaiser is in a big business park and when I hung up with Skye, I moseyed around, smiling to myself about how my life is a joke and how I have utterly no shame. Calling my ex-boyfriend to brag about my unpredictable bowels? What was becoming of me?
I had arrived at the doctor’s around 9 am and now it was 11:30 am. I found a nice patch of grass along the street and parked my uncooperative body under a tree. Since I had unlimited cell phone minutes which was a treat after having lived in Europe, I decided to make a few more phone calls to kill time. I called Kristen to confirm our lunch date. I called Ben Pickering, and of course my parents to report my updates. I was almost shocked at what was coming out of my mouth.
“Hey Ben! Yeah, I’m just waiting to have a bowel movement. Yeah, I know we were supposed to meet at 11, what can I say? I have to get this shit done!”
“Wow, Chelsea…”
My friends were incredulous, but at least they were laughing. An hour or so later and with no luck in the lower intestine department, I finally left Kaiser feeling dejected, and drove back to Sonoma to meet them at the Sunflower Café.
“It didn’t happen,” I grumbled.
“Aw, Chels…” Kristen began. And then suddenly it dawned on me that she also had an appointment later on at Kaiser. Enter my most brazen moment yet…I think I had actually lost my shit.
“Oh my god, Krissy… Could you do me a huge favor? You can say no if you want. I totally understand if you say no…”
“Sure, Chels, what is it?”
“Well, you see…I REALLY don’t want to drive ALL the way back to Kaiser later on to turn in my samples to the lab…and since you are going there anyway…”
Yes. I was actually entreating my poor, dear friend, Kristen to deliver my stool samples for me.
“Yeah, I could do that,” she responded cooly.
“Wow! Thanks…ok, but Kris.. I actually have to go right now. Could you come to my house with me? I think the coffee is finally hitting me… I gotta go now…!”
We left the café and hustled to my car. I got home and quick as wildfire, was setting up my station in the bathroom. I couldn’t help but think Skye would be proud, but resisted the urge to call him again. I finished the task in less than fifteen minutes. Kristen was waiting downstairs for me and I wrapped up the specimens in about ten different opaque plastic bags and tied them tightly together. I didn’t even have to stick them in the freezer because just a few minutes after it was complete, we heard a honk outside the door and Kristen’s mom was here to take her to her appointment. Like a brave warrior and the true friend that she is, she took hold of my thick sack of you know what and marched it out to the car…
In conclusion, I must preface each budding relationship in this way: Just so you know, I have a sensitive stomach. In case I run out of the room suddenly, or have a desire to go home, or look uncomfortable or disappear for a few hours, well, you can probably bet it has to do with my stomach. Sexy, eh? But, it actually brings me closer to a lot of people and is a surefire way to break the ice. Some guys are even turned on by my sexy stomach problems including Jesse, this guy I recently dated.
I think we had known each other for maybe a month, but since my stomach had been so rocky, I went ahead and gave him the lowdown from the get-go. It was the first time spending the night at his house, when at 7 am, I wake up with a mountain of air in my gut and my stomach all puffed out like a balloon. God damnit. Then, comes the onslaught of cramps; it’s a curse! I inch gingerly to the side of the bed and hope that the gaseous buildup will just magically dissipate without having to be released. Eventually, it’s so bad, that I roll to the floor and crawl to the bathroom, praying that he won’t wake up. Realizing that this is going to be worse than I’d thought, I crawl back, kiss him on the cheek and whisper in my sweetest voice, “Hey you, my stomach is acting up. Teehee. Gotta go home. Like right now.” However, he bolts awake and insists, “But I want you to destroy MY bathroom…I don’t care! Go for it!” He finds my incredible frankness entertaining, which isn’t the worst reaction, I suppose, and all the sudden he pulls me in close and can’t stop kissing me…
So there you have it, folks: the series of hilarious events involving chronic stomach issues that have led to my candid, cut-to-the chase- ice-breaking attitude about life. If you are dealing with an erratic stomach, you may as well try and share its quirks for shock value, maybe a little laughter here and there, or just to reassure people about their own high-functioning stomachs. It’s a pity, you may think. But, you’ve gotta work with what you got. And why not try to spice life up a bit by way of a bad stomach?
