I have multiple health issues. Many are related to my digestion. Occasionally I am asked to give a stool sample. (No, not pics of the various footstools I’d like in my home)
This is something I have never actually done except once while hospitalized and they did it for me. I go and get all the other tests (blood, urine, x-rays, etc), but I have never been able to bring myself to poop on a stick.
UGH! Drape this cloth over your toilet seat, try to hold it in place while you take your morning constitutional, stick a stick in it BEFORE the poop hits the water and gets contaminated. Then? STORE IT IN YOUR FRIDGE until you can get to town with it!
Sorry, the phrase “Don’t shit where you eat!”? It takes on a new meaning. I can’t imagine keeping my poop in my fridge even if it is in a sterile receptacle. And maybe I am being unreasonably crazy, but I already know I am. My craziness is not a valid argument in this situation. I don’t poop on sticks. I don’t store shit in my fridge.
However, this needs to happen.
I talked about it with Paul. He tried to talk me through it but I couldn’t do it. So? When he gets home he is going to help me poop on a stick. As humiliating as that should be? We’ve laughed about it being our first Tuesday morning date.
A Tuesday because if we do it on a Tuesday morning I can just get on the bus and take it to town without storing it with my food. He’ll hold the cloth, do the collecting and just wrap it up and hide it in my purse for me until I get to the clinic to turn it in.
And that is love.
He’s going to help me with pooping on a stick because the thought of trying to do it myself makes me cry. While that makes me kind of pathetic, it makes him my hero. That he would help me with this and that I trust his love enough to let him? He IS my champion. He is my caregiver.
There is no one else who has ever offered to help me poop on a stick.