Disclaimer: This blog isn’t for the weak of stomach, but it is for all you romance lovers.
Before Albin and I were even “official,” I got really sick. I was exhausted all the time and had diarrhea for days. Convinced I had some jungle disease (though despite what Jurassic Park portrays, San Jose is not located in a remote jungle on the beach), I went to the doctor. The doctor said it was probably a bacteria so we started a poop sample correspondence.
Now poop sample correspondences are challenging little suckers that require patience and a very personal relationship with your doctor. First, you have to buy those little plastic cups (can someone please tell me why they are clear plastic?). Second, you have to carry them around for when nature calls (usually at the most inopportune moment). Third, you have to use the little scoopy wand thing they give you to fish your mess out of the toilet (yuck). Fourth, you have to do the walk of shame back to the doctors within two hours of the BM (so the poop doesn’t go “bad”). There is also the option of putting it in the fridge to preserve it, which is despicable. Even if no one else knows you have poop in your purse, you do, and it haunts you.
A few days into our little stool-sharing endeavor, I realized my sludge was pretty potent. So potent, in fact, that if I let it sit for any amount of time in the little cup, the pressure(?) would blow the top off the container (I warned you). I promise this is going somewhere.
Well, after many days of the runs, I became dehydrated and Albin ran me to the hospital. Right before I left the apartment I grabbed a fresh sample and also grabbed a less recent sample from earlier in the day that was being preserved in the fridge (don’t judge me). I shoved them in my purse and prayed neither would pop on the way.
I’m sure you’ll be disappointed to find out that they didn’t explode en route, but I was quite relieved. We arrived at the hospital and as I was hooked up to an IV, I croaked something about having the vials hidden in a brown paper bag in my purse. I was not at the top of my game with Spanish skills at that moment, but I tried to explain that one vial had the time written on it (from earlier in the day), while the blank vial was my most recent creation. The doctor didn’t understand. I explained again. Still, there was confusion. Much to my dismay, Albin took over. He grabbed the vials out of my purse, one still a little warm for sure, and explained which was which. I was mortified as they both studied those little transparent flasks of nast. We weren’t even officially dating and this guy was holding a canister of my rotting, freshly baked guts. I might have faked passing out right then.
Anyway, that pretty much sealed the deal. That’s a real man. Surprisingly, I lived to tell about the experience and found out I had Mono and some bacteria. I’m pretty sure that up until this point, my parents thought Albin was just a passing fling, but when I recounted the story to my parents the next day, my mom said, “Wow, he might be the one for you.”
And the one for me he was. Any man that can hold my still-warm feces in his hand one minute and look at me adoringly in the next deserves some respect…and my heart.