My Private Shame

Not so private, if I’m writing about it. But I feel I must, because this was an experience. And it all began with a choice. Yeah, I was given a choice, and at the time I thought I made the right one. Well, I guess it’s more of perspective. Mine was a box full of shame.

Fair warning: this is a long one, full of my misdeed. If reading about poop is not your thing I suggest you turn away now. If it is your thing, what are you, weird? If you’re curious about Cologuard however, perhaps you should read on. And remember, this is a personal experience. Your experiences may, and probably will, be different.

Let’s start at the beginning. The job’s health insurance plan says that to avoid a hundred dollar increase on my payments I needed to get a “wellness check”. Back in my day it was called a physical. But times change, as do the names we give things. Like a warehouse full of crap being called a fulfillment center. It’s the same thing, just given a more pleasing title to make one feel all good inside. Again, back in my day no one cared about your feelings, and people still don’t, or shouldn’t. But I digress.

I go for my wellness check and during the exam I’m given a choice. As I’m of an age I need to get my colon checked. My choice was a colonoscopy or cologuard. The doctor offered me these choices with a smile on his face, I feel because he doesn’t have to do it. A young doctor who’s far and away from having to make this choice. As I am of an age, I think I’m deserving of a little more respect from a smiling, thirty-ish doctor having fun at my expense. But again, I digress.

So I have a choice: get a colonoscopy, which is six feet of camera up my butt, or get Cologuard, where I poop in a box in the privacy of my own home. Now, perhaps I’m so not gay that the idea of having anything shoved up my butt is just so, what’s the word, wrong. Or perhaps the idea of having someone shove something up my butt while I lay there and take it is just off-putting. Or maybe being invaded like that is just so humiliating. I don’t know, but I do enjoy my privacy in such matters, not that I face these choices every day. But if I have to, I would prefer not having an audience. So I choose the Cologuard, thinking my privacy, and my humility (let alone my dignity) will remain intact.

So I get an email telling me that they got the order and my sample collection box will be sent out shortly. I’m thinking, cool. I’ll be done with this soon. Then I get an email from the clinic asking me about taking a survey. I hate surveys so I ignore it, not knowing that the clinic is aggressive about their surveys. Every day I get an email from them to take it. They really want to know what I think. I’m of the opinion that no news is good news, but they don’t share in my opinion so they keep sending them. Finally I relent, hoping that this will end the barrage. This of course raises my stress level, although I’m not fully sure it was. Call it a point against them. Just one. And it’s not even the Cologuard lab, so it really shouldn’t count. But still…

Then I get an email saying the box has been shipped and I’m thinking, cool, almost over. But then comes an intrusive thought. I have to poop in a box. What kind of person poops in a box? I ask myself this and a few other questions like, will I get it in the box? Will I have to clean up anything should I miss? Is the box big enough? How much of a mess will I make? These and other thoughts start to plague me, and I’m beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea. Five more points on the stress meter.

The box arrives a few days later and now I’m thinking: can I do this in my room? Do I want to? As I live in a shared home with other tenants sharing the same bathroom I’m wondering can I do this without being seen, especially as I would have to take this into and out of the shared bathroom? After all, this is private, and I really don’t want people knowing that I poop in a box. I mean think of it. I have to poop in a box! My God, what kind of sick person poops in a box? What was I thinking when I said yes to this? Oh, I know what I was thinking. My pride, my dignity, my humility! After all, how do you look the person who just shoved a camera up your butt in the eye? Now I have to face the consequences of my decision head on, and somehow find a way to deal with it, dammit! Ten more points.

Jeez, what was I thinking? Ughh! From here on out I’m going to refer to it as “the sample”. Just thinking about the… wait a minute, sorry, a brief flash of nausea came and went. Moving on, I open the box and find a plastic zip lock bag containing all the things I need, like a small tub to collect the sample. Well that’s one question answered, I guess. Not to say I have large samples but I was a little scared that it would be too much for it. Then there’s a bracket for the tub to fit in and place on the toilet. Okay, hopefully I can position it right to decrease clean up. Then there’s a probe to mush in the sample. WAIT A MINUTE! I have to LOOK at it?! and PROBE IT?! My stomach has heard enough and is now sending a chortled burp up my esophagus, a harbinger of things to come. If I can just keep my disgust in check, I can get through this. Calling it a sample helps a lot. A whole lot. I can do this, dammit. Twenty more points. That stress meter is climbing quick.

For all those who are thinking, ‘What’s the big deal? it’s your own sample.’ Fuck you. I find samples a disgusting part of our physiology, and would much rather not see it. Bad enough you go to work and go to the bathroom, just to find someone has left a floater. It’s bad, just bad. Oh, and those of you who are like ‘You act like you’ve never seen your sample before’. Fuck you too. When I do see it it’s under water in the toilet and occluded with TP. Nothing to dwell on, except if there’s something unusual about it. Which, thank God there isn’t. ‘You’ve seen dogs and cats leave samples. Everyone leaves samples, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.’ Fuck you three. Just because everyone does it doesn’t mean I have to like it. So that’s three fucks I can give. I can’t give no more.

So now It’s time. I’ve read the instructions, located all of the things I need, I’m ready. I wait for the morning, my usual sample giving time. I wait until no one’s around, and slip into the bathroom. Now comes the private shame. I lay out the bracket and position it so that I can pee without it going into the tub. And now comes the moment of truth! But I can’t do it. It’s just so unnatural that I hesitate. Shake it off, you can do this. I try again, and hesitate again. This just doesn’t feel right. Luckily I waited before I gave my sample to the point where there is no going back. I had to go. And on the third attempt, I do it, feeling oh so dirty the whole time. I’m so disgusted with myself, because samples belong in the toilet, not in some tub to be saved. If ever there was a time to say to myself, ‘What are you thinking, man?’, that was it.

Now comes the hard part. I stand up to examine the sample. It sits in the tub looking like, well, a curly sample. And it all got in the tub. Ughhh. That came out of me. I tell myself Ok, no meandering, finish this. So I grab the probe and push it in the sample. The look on my face is one I can only imagine, but I bet there was a lot of cringing going on. The instructions say to get it in the grooved areas of the probe. Which means more examining of something I would rather leave behind me (yes, it’s a pun, but it’s not intentional). The stress meter is no longer viable because I believe it peaked way past its nominal level before I sat down. The probe is now soiled correctly and put into a tube, for safe keeping I suppose. So I’m done.

No, I’m not done, because now I have to add a preservative to the sample. What the fuck? That’s right folks, a preservative. A bottle of fluid I add to the sample before I close the lid. I pour it in and it fills whatever crevasses in the sample, giving it a more…I’m sorry, I don’t want to say. My stomach is telling me to leave it alone and get on with the story. So sorry, no details. Or good, no details. Yeah, I’ll go with that.

Anyway, I close the tub, move the bracket, sit back down and wipe. That’s right, I stood there playing with my sample and all the while I haven’t wiped yet. No choice, as the process keeps you focused on the sample and not on your hygiene. Not that it was terrible, just really awkward.

Ok, my duty done (shut up), it’s time to return to my room. I make sure the coast is clear and make a dash for it, with my private shame in my hand. Once inside, it’s time to box it up.

Here’s the part of the story where I tell you of the condition of the box. Why here? To give real context to my struggle. You see, when the box was delivered it was left on my front steps. I didn’t see it until I got home, after it rained. Yes, the cardboard box got soaked, and as luck would have it, the UPS man left it on a part of my step where the eaves of the roof are on a corner, meaning rain water from both sides get to pour directly on the box. It was a mess, but nothing a thorough tape job with some packing tape couldn’t fix. And I do mean thorough. I don’t want my private shame to be seen, noticed, smelled, or anything. I’m just a guy mailing his sample to some lab, nothing to see here folks. The plastic bag it came in was none the worse, so no problem. The return mailing label was.

The label got so soaked it faded. Not too much, I tell myself. I can still make out the address, see the bar code, it shouldn’t be a problem. Hoping for the best, yet expecting the worse, I tape it up as best I could and prepare to mail it out.

That’s when a distant memory came to the surface. A long time ago I remember reading a story of a girl who was possessed. She lived alone and didn’t call her parents anymore. Her parents worried for her and, knowing she wasn’t working, sent her a care package. It was returned, through the mail, after she had defecated in it. Now here I am about to do the same thing, minus the care. Mail my, sample, to some unknown person. Who does that? I mean, that’s kind of sick, right? Even if it’s for medical purposes, that’s not normal behavior. I consider this as I head out the door, box in hand. I look at it and think I should just throw it in the trash. I mean, what would people think if they knew what I was doing? What do I think of myself, knowing what I’m doing. The stress meter is no longer operative, as it couldn’t handle the overload, so I’m left to follow through with my private shame with a blank look on my face. I’m no longer involved mentally, I have a task to complete, regardless of what it is. Please God, let me hold onto my sanity.

I head for the UPS store and prepare to take it in. I say prepare because the distance to the store from my car, while short, is monumental. Out in the open, holding my sample, wondering who will notice. I have to figure that most people wouldn’t know or care. But those who’ve been through this will know. And most of all, I know. My shame, while covered up, will be exposed to the world. Look, I tell myself, just do it, it’ll be fine. So I muscle up my courage, grab the box, and move out.

I’m not looking around as I walk. I act nonchalantly, like everything’s fine. I zero onto my target and open the door to the store, just now realizing that I’ll have to talk to a counter-person. Crap. Just keep it moving I say to myself. I walk up to the counter and place it on the scale, saying I need this to be shipped out. The guy hits it with his scanner and I’m thinking, good it’s done. Then he hits it again as the first scan didn’t take and now I’m thinking, am I done? He scans it a third time and then tells me the barcode is so faded he can’t scan it. Crap. Well, how much is it if I just pay for it? How much? Never mind, I’ll figure something out. Back out the door, back across the parking lot, back into my car with my shame. What do I do now?

Well now I have to go to work! With my private shame sitting in the car seat next to me. The instructions say to store at room temperature, gut there is no way I’m taking this into the building. I’ll just leave it on the floor, yeah, it’ll be alright. Sure, the car gets hot during the day, but if I keep it low enough it’ll be fine, right? Right? Whatever, it stays in the car. Bad enough I have to carry my shame around, I’m not going to parade around the warehouse. It’s private.

But what do I do? Fortunately I have the number for Cologuard. I call them up and explain the situation. They send me a new shipping label. Great. It’s an attachment in my email. Cool. I have to print it out. Ummm…

Who do I know that can print this for me? I know, my HR lady. She’s cool, and this wellness check was her idea anyway. And she’ll be discreet. I can trust her. I go to find her and she’s not in. Dammit. I look around and in the office next door is a small group of people at their desks and they all have access to a printer. So with a gulp I go in and ask if anyone can print something for me. The young lady sitting at the first desk, you know, the happy chipper kind of person who is always willing to help, says yes. Dammit.

Ok, if I do this right I can send her the attachment without her knowing what it’s for. Of course I do it wrong and send her the Cologuard header, all bright and blue with “COLOGUARD” in big bold letters at the top. That happy chipper look on her face is now gone as she goes “Oh my”. Yeah, just my luck. After some figuring out on my phone I send her the right label while making as little eye contact as possible. She gets it, prints it out, and hands it to me. “Thanks” I say as I scurry out the door. My private shame is now public. I don’t even want to know what she said to her co-workers after I left. I just don’t.

Lunchtime arrives. I take my label back to the car, The box doesn’t seem the worse, so I tape the label on and head back to the UPS store. I get it in without any hesitation, eager to be done with this messy business. The girl, yes, now it’s a girl, scans the box an says I’m all set. As I walk out I notice she has left it on the counter as she works with something else. My private shame, sitting on the scale, waiting to be handled. A shiver runs up my spine as I hurry out of there, at least satisfied that that business is over with.

So there it is. Like I said. your experience may be totally different from mine. It’s not something I wish to repeat at all. Granted, it’s better than having six feet of camera shoved up my butt, but the shame part may be a little too much for me. Especially as I had to mail it. Again I ask, who does that?

PS: The results came back. Positive. Now I have to get a colonoscopy anyway. What a wasted effort.