G.I.: A brief history of the weird battle raging inside me

Chapter 3

One of the nice things about Dr. Piller was that I never had to wait long for an appointment. He and his staff were used to shuffling in dozens of people, scooping up insurance payments and getting home at a decent hour.

He did recognize repeat visitors, though, and knitted his brow when he saw me back.

"What? Back again?"

"What can I say, doc," I said. "I'm a fan."

He ignored me and took out his stethoscope and listened to my stomach. Actually, he listened to the four quadrants of my lower abdomen. The gurgling was occasionally loud enough to hear without the tool, but he clearly wasn't all that interested in the sounds themselves but what they might mean.

I told him how I'd changed my diet, taken Lactaid with meals, and continued to get most of my daily exercise by sprinting to the bathroom.

Being the pill doctor I'd come to know him as, I suspected he would give me a prescription and send me on my way. Instead, he had the nurse give me a little kit, the biggest part of which looked like a white Styrofoam container McDonald's once used to package Big Macs. The lesser instruments in the kit included tiny wooden forks smaller than tongue depressors, and a couple thick paper packets, each about the size of two packs of matches.

"What's all this?" I asked, innocently.

"It's a stool sample kit," he said.

I laughed. "A what now? Seriously," I said. "What is it?"

He looked at me sternly. "It's what I said it was."

I rolled my eyes and asked him where I should wait until I got the urge to go.

"Oh, this isn't something I expect you to do here," he said. "This package is strictly a take-out - unless you're feeling the urge now?"

I shook my head.

As he explained it, the next time I went number twos, I needed to reach inside the toilet bowl with the little wooden forks and collect some shit so they could test it. The little paper things in the kit contained cloth-like sterile surfaces on which I was to smear some of my shit so the good doctors could check for blood and anything else that might interest them.

I left the office with the Styrofoam kit and tools hidden in a nondescript bag. It was hidden to the general public, but everyone in the office - patients and nurses alike - knew damn well I was leaving with a stool kit. No one said anything as I quickly said my farewells and headed back to work.

The stress of all this was adding to my already big pile of anxiety. I was tense most of the time wondering if this moment - no this moment - was the one when I would suddenly shit my pants.

Work also wasn't going well. I was burned out and running out of steam. I'd been covering the same place and the same things for more than three years and it was getting to me. Not just the fires or police calls, but the council and legislature meetings and all of it. I'd been around the pike over and over again and felt a mix of impatience and consternation. Impatience because I wanted a job where I was doing something newsworthy myself and not just following people who did. Consternation because the daily grind and quota of stories was a never-ending treadmill.

After three years, I'd hoped I'd be promoted out of the bureau, but I never got the word. Guys who made more frequent trips to the main office on Salina Street in Syracuse got the face time and promotions. I remained the good soldier and knew it. I wasn't going anywhere. As a result, I floated a few resumes, considered doing some freelance work and starting my own business, and seriously considered just quitting. My health was clearly suffering and I thought one of the best ways to relieve the strain was to eliminate the primary stress. At the time, it was my job.