When there's something strange in your intestinal tract, who you gonna call?

Hey there, whoever you are. Welcome back. Or welcome for the first time. Or sorry, you typed that address in wrong, this isn’t the Domino’s ordering website. Whatever brought you here I’m happy it did. Welcome to this crazy little thing called life. To recap for you, last week I talked about voice and choice in discussing how we have the power to choose how we experience our lives. I then imparted some of the sage wisdom I’ve gained over the past three years in therapy to try and help folks shift their perspective and start viewing life through a more optimistic, hopeful lens.

As per usual when I give people advice, life gave me the opportunity to practice what I preach. And as per usual, when such an opportunity arises, I missed it in much the same way that I missed every layup I ever attempted in church league basketball as a child. Ugh.

As always, this story will take the long way around, but we’ll get back to my point, I promise. Be warned, as the title suggested, this story will involve poop. A lot of poop. If you can’t handle that, it’s best to turn back now.

So. Something terrible happened last week. It all started off so innocently. I spent a large portion of last weekend working. I had two events, one Saturday and one on Sunday. I felt really good about this, though. I manage an HIV/STD prevention program for a local AIDS Service Organization and having the opportunity to get into the community and test is always exciting so I really didn’t mind working on the weekend. In fact, I was kinda jazzed. I felt great about the events we were involved in and really felt like I was “doing the work”, ya know? Plus it was so pretty out, look:

In any case, on Sunday night, I wrote last week’s blog, published it, finished up some laundry, got things ready for the week, and decided to head the warnings of all those articles that say screen time before bed affects your sleep. I decided to do my nightly stretches and then read by candlelight in my room a la Emily Dickinson (white nightgown and all). I settled in and read some of the book I’ve been reading for way too long before deciding to call it a night. I crawled into bed and that is when it started.

I tried to sleep, but for some reason my heart was racing. Then I started to get hot, like REALLY hot. I thought, “GREEEEEEEEAAAAAAT, here comes one of those once-every-couple-of-months panic attacks. Can’t wait to sob uncontrollably on the floor!” I was sure that was what was coming. It felt just like my precursor panic attack symptoms. That was, until the nausea set in.

Never before in my life have I ever wished that I were having a panic attack until that night because what unfolded was FAAAAAAR worse. All it took was one trip to the bathroom to know I was in trouble. When you go to take a dump, but it sounds like you just peed, you know there’s a problem. I thought, “Ok you can handle this, it’s happened before, you’ll be ok.” NOOOOOOOPE. Not true. 2 hours later I had vomited about 8 times and shit about 15 time, some of which happened simultaneously (because I’m a multi-tasker). And let me just say, there are few experiences that are more humbling than simultaneously vomiting and shitting, it is a true reminder of one’s humanity. After another half hour I knew it was time for the ER. I had lost so much fluid, I had thrown my back out, I could barely move, and it didn’t show signs of stopping.

By the time I got to the ER, I was in full sweats with a fever and chills. My blood pressure was 80/40 and my resting heart rate was 145. In other words, I was literally pooping myself to death. I had ridden to the ER with a bucket and a roll of paper towels with the understanding that if I told my roommate I needed out, she was to pull over instantly and I would literally shit/vomit on the side of whatever road we were on. That’s where we were in life. Six hours, two bags of saline, three shots of Zofran, one dose of morphine, and one stool sample later we had our answer: norovirus. I was monitored until my blood pressure increased and sent on my way to allow nature to continue to run its course.

Now let me just say, I am no novice when it comes to diarrhea. I’ve always known this, but it becomes abundantly clear a few months ago when my sister called to say she was back from vacation and that she thought she caught a bug because she was in the bathroom 24/7. She said she called me because she knew that I would know what to do. THAT is who I have become, ladies and gentlemen, the person that other people call when they have uncontrollable diarrhea. Because they know that I know what to do. Such a dream come true. NOT. You always hope to grow up to be the guy that people call when like their car breaks down or when they’re locked out of the house or when they’ve been kidnapped in Europe because they know you’ll know what to do. You want to be Liam Neeson. I want to be Liam Neeson. Instead I have become the one stop shop for all your loose-stool related needs.

I mean, I have to admit it, people aren’t wrong. Since I was a kid, my anxiety has always triggered my IBS symptoms. Add to that living with an undiagnosed gluten allergy for years. And as if those don’t give me enough experience for a B.A. in Stool Studies, I have contracted three different intestinal viruses/parasites in the past year. First was giardia, a protozoan entity with tiny razor sharp teeth that literally latches onto and eats your intestinal wall. That was around summer of last year, a lovely gift from an ex that stuck with me for about 2.5 months and caused me to lose 25 lbs. Then, after receiving too much antibiotic treatment for giardia, I contracted c diff, a potentially fatal infection of the colon. Fun. Thankfully that was caught before I had symptoms and thankfully cleared pretty quickly. Finally, we have last Sunday’s run-in with norovirus, the leading viral cause of diarrhea and vomiting in the US. Yum.

Pretty impressive stuff, eh? I wasn’t kidding when I said I’m the one you call to help you manage your runs. And I didn’t even mention that the strain from these multiple infections caused appendicitis, which lead to a surprise appendectomy (although they are almost always a surprise) in December. I know, I’m showboating now. Here’s where I start to circle back around to my point.

Sunday night was an opportunity to really dig into the perspective shifting challenge. I really needed to use my voice and choice to view my misfortune as just that, misfortune: an unexpected and unwelcomed run-in with a very common bug that happens to be going around the city.

Well, I decided against my own advice and opted to instead go ahead and FREAK THE FUCK OUT. Now you might be saying, “Adam, you have the right to freak out a little, you’ve had so many things go wrong with your health in the past few years.” True. I think I’m allowed to feel the sadness and anger and frustration that comes with my third intestinal infection in a years time added onto the bevy of chronic pain symptoms I’ve developed. But what I struggle with is the ability to feel that sadness, that anger, and that frustration and then shift. Alas, more often than not, I just can’t let it go.

Unfortunately, our bodies can create strong emotional ties to physical sensations, and so the physical state in which I found myself triggered a whole host of emotional responses. In short, I found myself in a familiar space of feeling physically drained, weak, and overwhelmed, which lead me back to the familiar emotional space of feeling isolated, alone, forsaken, and destined for a life of sickness.

I made the active choice to not shift my perspective and instead sit in a space of self-pity and anguish. I called my sister and I sobbed. While driving, which is a great way to terrify the people driving around you. “I just don’t get it,” I said. “I put so much fucking time and energy into my health and I’m still always sick,” I said. “I try so hard and my friends barely try and they are so much healthier than I am,” I said. “I’m so tired of this,” I said. “Why does this always happen to me,” I asked.

These moments have happened before. The moments when I think about how much time, money, and energy I invest in my health. How I stretch nightly. How I do physical therapy exercises nightly. How I go to the doctor weekly. How I eat only gut-healthy, gluten-free, non-GMO foods. How I avoid activities and stressors that trigger my pain. How I edit my social and work life to accommodate my health needs. How after all of this I still can’t sit for more than 30 minutes at a time. How after all of this I still wind up in the hospital every few months. How after all of this I still have to say no to plans with friends because my back hurts so bad you feel like you’re going to shit your pants. How after all of this I still lose days or weeks of my life to blinding pain.

And that, my friends, is how you spiral. That is how you make sure you view your life through of fear and lacking. That is how you make sure that your focus becomes all the things you don’t have and all the things you can’t do. I am very good at spiraling. Still working on pulling myself out.

So this past week was rough. Physically I’m still not 100%. I bleach everything I touch and have attached hand sanitizer to my car keys. Emotionally, I’m rebounding, but still not quite there yet either. With restored health comes restored mental clarity, and so with each day I try to put perspective on things. I don’t really know where this story ends, mostly because it’s still going. On the practical side of things, I followed up with my doctors and made plans to see an immunologist to see if I am immune-compromised in some way. That’s a whole other triggering story in itself. On an emotional side of things, I’m trying to see what I do have: a roommate who was willing to put a person with uncontrollable diarrhea in their car and sit with said human at the hospital for 6 hours before dropping said human off to go pick up their prescriptions and the adult diapers they requested even though they had been awake all through the night. Friends who offered support in whatever way I needed it. Coworkers who feverishly hugged me upon my return to work, telling me how much they missed me. And a sister who made me cry with this:

Perspective is everything, y’all. It really is.

Until next time.

Peace and love

Adam