Even with the pains and unbalanced diet I put myself on as a
result of what I didn’t yet know was Salmonella, I decided it was OK to go on a
little drinking bender in a remote hunting shack somewhere outside of
Lanesboro. As I mentioned at the end of the last post, this shack had no
toilet. It was a trailer surrounded by grass, surrounded by taller grass, and
eventually dense forest and vegetation. It was winter time but the snow had not
yet fallen. It is beautiful down in
southeast Minnesota, and this location was no exception.
For the first few days of the illness, I had been crawling
to the bathroom in my apartment 20-30 times per day. As I restricted my food
intake, the trips became less frequent. By the sixth or seventh day I was able
to venture outside of my apartment without fear of shitting in my pants. Mind
you I had not been to see a Doctor yet because I thought whatever I had would
simply run its course, which would turn out to be true after a $2,000 bill.
Anyhow, it was deer hunting season and I had already purchased my license so I
was going to go.
We got to the shack and proceeded to drink at our normal
pace which was quite heavy. Definitely beer, maybe Jägermeister, and definitely
beer. (It seems to never fail. I’m sitting at Nina’s enjoying a cup of amazing
coffee, and the creepiest fucking guy with a cartoon fat face and a terrible
cough sits right next to me. He’s wearing more cologne than I own, and his
mouth is hanging open. It’s 6:58am and we’re the only two people in here.) I
held my poops pretty well that night. When I woke up at 4 to get ready, the
urge hit and I stepped outside.
The following is the story of the worst single shit I have
ever had in my life. I was wearing coveralls and they needed to come all the
way off in order for them to not get covered in feces. It was coming out like
right now and that’s when I forgot how to use a zipper. The struggle was real,
I felt like I was in one of those horrible Japanese game shows where you try to
hold in your mud for as long as possible. It was below zero outside and I was sweating.
I was also swearing, mad for being so foolish as to leave myself out
in the middle of nowhere without the basic necessities. Finally, the zipper
worked and I jumped out of the coveralls and I sat over the top of a giant
sideways log. I remember how sharp the frozen bark felt on my bare ass as I
tried to find a position in which my poop would hit the ground, and I wouldn’t crush
my testicles and pee on my leg. I sat, and I pushed. That was the worst part
about the whole sickness. Not so much the terrible cramping, but the feeling of
horrible gas bubbles that wouldn’t go away for days. I mean, it always felt
like I had to go but I couldn’t, even after I had. I felt a movement. Then, it
happened. I heard a pop followed by a muffled, guttural splash of hot jelly
hitting frozen dead grass, I did not miss the log. I let out a laugh/sigh of relief, and just sat
there. I was so cold, but the thought that I could maybe just push out a little
more kept me in that awkward state for a few more minutes. There would be no
more poop, and there would be no deer. And most importantly there was no toilet paper. Fuck.
It was the day before Thanksgiving when my friend Curt took
me to the hospital in Rochester. I thought I had entered the E.R. at Olmsted
Medical Center, but I had actually entered the clinic. I didn’t care. I went up
to the receptionist and said, “I think I’m dying.” She looked me over and
decided I was serious and called for help. Within minutes I had a Doctor in
front of me and we went over the standard questions. I only remember hearing
one thing from that whole conversation, "...we will need to take a sample of your
blood.” Fuck.
