Welcome to Quirks, a recurring segment where I discuss problems with interpersonal relations. Mostly mine. Today we’re talking about Norovirus.
“Hey Trevor! Just a heads up that my stool sample is ready for you. I left it on my front porch. Got a busy day of meetings, but let me know if you need anything! Clock started at 10:20am. Good luck!”
This was the text I sent to a nice young man from the local health authority this morning. Trevor drives a bright red sedan and has a tidy haircut. This morning I informed Trevor that I had taken a mid-morning crap and that I’d left a walnut-sized sample of it for him in a brown paper sack by my front door.
Three weeks ago my son had an all-school dance. All children who attended were required to show up with an adult. I drew the short straw, and so, to the dance we went.
Being a parent is full of little surprises. One day you’re filling an ice-cube tray with puree’d mangos. The next you’re huddled in the dark corner of the local grange ogling at some kid’s dad who normally wears zip-off cargo pants and fleece vests while he dances his ass off to Levitating in a black beret and leather jacket. These are the things the parenting books should prepare you for. ‘Following the all-school dance that for some reason the PTA puts on for EIGHT-year-olds, say, “Nice moves last weekend, Bill! Great hat choice!” Say it casually. Not too eager. Don’t make it seem like the image is now seared into your brain until the end of time.’
It was a Friday night. The dance lasted two hours, and I drank one sparkling water.
On Sunday morning I received a text message on the group chat of the moms that I’m friendly with. “Anyone else’s children vomiting? It just hit,” said two moms within the hour. “Not here! But we didn’t eat any of the food. You think it’s food poisoning?” I smugly offered.
By the afternoon I was puking and shitting my brains out.
The text thread became increasingly un-hinged with each new victim added to our count. “My two are going at the same time. I can only describe this as a horror show,” said one mom.
“My kid said Susie went home from school on Friday, but showed up that night for the event,” said another.
“Frickin’ Typhoid Mary showing up to the school dance.”
“She couldn’t miss the social event of the year!!!”
“I had just one violent purge, but I think I’m good now!”
It went on like this for three days straight. Luckily, I was the only person in my household to get sick. If I’m being honest, it wasn’t my worst bout of what I assume was norovirus. There was the time in high school I found a band-aid in my Taco Bell burrito. I was laid out for a week with that one. And then the time I had to pull over to barf in the toilet at Wendy’s on my way home from work. Come to think of it, most of my violent illness-related purging has taken place in the bathroom stalls of various chain restaurants. Friends over the last few weeks became shocked when I share that I believe this is my third time with norovirus. “Three times?!” they exclaim in judgement. Look, these are just the trials and tribulations of being a Lady About Town.
On Monday, we learned that half the school called out. Same deal on Tuesday. By the end of the week, we had all received an email from the state health authority. They were looking to understand the root cause of the severe communicable disease that had plagued our entire community. It all came down to one source: Susie at the school grange. But the officials wanted to conduct a real analysis.
At the end of the survey, we were asked one final question: “Would you like to volunteer to provide a stool sample?” Um, hell yes! In the name of science and research and surely an entertaining story I can tell my friends! Sign. Me. Up.
A few days later I got a call from Trevor. He explained to me that he’d be my guide for the specimen sample. “Only one small thing,” he added at the end of our call. “I need to personally get the sample back from you within two hours of completion so that I can drive it to the lab.”
I’m sorry. What?? I thought I’d get to go to some lab and see it all in action! Be an anonymous testing subject in a sea of fellow science-fanatics in lab coats and giant hairnets! I thought there would be a conveyor belt with beaker-filled… substances! What do you mean your name is Trevor and you’re just going to show up to my house in your red sedan where I hand you my turd in a brown paper bag??? Um, no thank you, Trevor, I am a busy and classy woman with little time for your school-yard shenanigans!
But also I’m no quitter.
Later that day, Trevor swung by my house and dropped off the kit. We exchanged digits, and he kindly gave me a grace-period of a few days to get my shit together. The kit was filled with tons of joyful items. A paper bowl. A plastic spoon. A gauze pad? One singular rubber glove. A paper bonnet.
Anyway. I’ll spare you the details. The deed was done at 10:20am this morning. Suffice it to say, that’s not a bonnet. And two gloves would have been nice. But that’s the thing about parenting. One day you’re chaperoning a school dance. The next you’re leaving a pile of shit on your front porch to share with a new friend.
If you enjoyed this, then i) there’s something wrong with you, and ii) here’s a link to one from the archives:1
Look. I know it’s been nearly three years since I published Part I and then left you hanging with no Part II. The punchline to that story is basically that I went to a doctor and had to do something similar in the photo above, except that instead of a paper bowl, they gave me a paper hot dog container like you get at the snack shack at sporting events. And then I mailed it to a lab via UPS and got test results that said I had this thing called SIBO. I had to take a bunch of oregano-infused vitamins for a while. Also I stopped eating salads sprayed with some kind of preservative and also the pandemic happened which meant that I was stuck working at home for a long stretch and became a much less stressed-out and neurotic person, generally. And also I started drinking more water? I don’t know. I’m just saying - if you’re hounding me about this because you think you have a similar problem then go to one of those naturopathic doctors and let them order you a bunch of fun tests and then let them tell you what’s wrong with you. The end.
Must be something wrong with me then because I enjoyed the fuck out of this… 👏
Enjoyed is an understatement, which, by the way, my phone just auto-corrected to “undergarment” and I almost left it that way because I think you might’ve enjoyed it, but I don’t know you quite well enough yet. Brilliant piece. I hope Trevor subscribes.