Doing the dirty deed

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, August 12th, 2011

Someone once said, “You haven’t really lived until you’ve had to collect your child’s stool sample.” Okay, no one said that, but this thought occurred to me once when I was amidst this unsavory act. Rest assured, it was for medical purposes. I don’t have the time, energy, space, or desire to be a hobby collector. Besides, saving up potential coprolite (literally, “dung stone”) would not be on my list.


Indeed, the sordid act is stomach turning. While engaged in the deed, this single-sentence complaint wafted through my mind. It could be the kernel of a column, because writing a weekly column is like being a professional complainer, except you don’t derive a living off of this exceptional ability. That’s not a complaint, just an observation.


Do you know what happens whenever I complain about things, even mentally? The things I complain about get worse. I know I sound like a superstitious scaredy-cat. Perhaps it is a weakness in my faith, but it happens often enough to be uncanny. I feel like that Skinnerian rat (or cat) that has developed the habit of turning around thrice before pressing the food lever because that’s how it worked the first twelve times.


I once had to take a child’s specimen. It’s one thing to keep your child’s medals and trophies – maybe the refrigerator artwork, or even those obnoxious yarn and Popsicle stick crafts they produce. But collecting stool samples is something else entirely. Poised with one of those scientific, tubular containers with the tiny spoon conveniently attached in the lid, you try desperately to disassociate this astute little medical device to its kin, the tiny ice cream sample spoon. Ew. This was not what you wanted to collect from your darling. The thought of samples has been forever tainted.


The moment I thought what a disgusting endeavor it was, how relieved I was (stop hunting for puns) that it was over, and how happy I should be if I never had to do this again, I found myself conscripted for the task of collecting, not a single specimen, but an entire supply for a general, 72-hour study.


Mathematical translation: “Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any stools? Yes, Mom, yes, Mom: Three days’ full.”


Notice how this task once again falls into the maternal domain? The maternal domain continues to expand like an unwilling oil slick: traditionally confined to the home to cook, clean, and train the children, we are now bringing in incomes, chauffeuring, managing finances, networking, arranging (or doing) car maintenance, and, yes, collecting medical samples.


So it was that events conspired against me. I would need to keep the child’s dietary log for three days, and then continue logging for another three days, during which time I was collecting that child’s…well, logs.


Excuse my crudeness. Since I debased myself and wrote about finding boogers on the walls of my home like an archaeologist discovering cave paintings, I find stooping to the topic of stools fairly tolerable. Next week, I might describe myself in a bathing suit.


Hence, I have collected everything for three days. EVERYTHING. I’m not going to name the child involved, because a little embarrassment, my children can tolerate. After all, they live with me. But this would be asking too much. It would also be telling too much.


Those with children in diapers might be rolling their eyes. They might be thinking they have already collected many months’ worth. True, you might be exposed to this on a daily basis. You might be disposing of it, but you aren’t collecting it. No one has told you to keep those nasty diapers refrigerated. As repulsive as I find the term “ew” to be, I will have to use it again. Ew. My refrigerator has been violated. I could complain, but I’m not going there. Instead, I’ll be glad we live in the era of modern medicine, refrigerators, and plastic. Especially plastic.


I used to think my husband’s refrigerating worms left over from a fishing trip was a little nasty and disturbing. I would dodge that shelf with the bagged, Styrofoam container of dirt and its nearly dormant wriggling contents. Now, finding worms in the fridge would be, comparatively, very desirable.


This morning, as soon as I click “SEND” to my editor, I am headed down to the UVA Hospital with this cargo, because their lab is one of the few that sends samples to the Mayo Clinic.


Should I keep the samples on ice for the 70-mile drive to Charlottesville? I could compensate for all the shopping trips when I’ve reused canvas bags: I’d go with a disposable cooler.

If I skip the cooler, I might have to speed. What would I say if I got pulled over? “Officer, I’m on an urgent medical mission, and with all due respect, I can’t take this crap from you.” Because, despite my exasperated pleas to my children that I can’t take any more crap from them, apparently, I can. And I do.