Losing Control

I remember the first time I shat myself in public…as an adult. It was shocking how little forewarning I had. It was 3 years ago, so that would have put me at 32. It was a first date with someone I’d met online. We chose a fancy little pub I’d never been to before, “The Fox and Barrel”, if memory serves. As nervous as I was, I still felt like Cheryl was actually enjoying my company. She had silken brown hair in a neat bob, wore a slim fitting black dress very well, and had a lovely laugh.

We’d had a couple of drinks already and were sharing a few small plates. This was only my second date after a devastating divorce, so her smile did wonders for my self-esteem. However, the sudden gurgling in my belly laughed at my veneer of confidence. She must have seen a change in my demeanor because she stopped mid-sentence to ask if I was alright.

“Ya, ya. I’m fine” I said. “Excuse me for a moment I have to use the…” my words trailed off as a bursting spray of warmth oozed down my leg. I was mortified. I hastily dug out more cash than necessary to throw on the table. “I’ve had a great time, but I just remembered some appointment family…thing” I mumbled as I backed clumsily away from the table. I didn’t make eye contact or turn my back to her until I had bumped into several people on the way towards the door. At that point, fleeing into the night in an awkward little shuffle seemed the appropriate response. She messaged me a few times to see if I was alright, wondering what had happened. I never responded.

I’m sure most people have a similar story by now.

The next few months were a dark period for me. I needed an illness or condition to point a finger at. Bad milk from the store, a sick neighbor in my apartment building, alcohol intake, something to blame. Hoping it would be something I could avoid, a solution to be fixed. But my shaky bowels only got less dependable. I became a hermit. I had my meals and groceries delivered, and I stopped going out with friends. Even my work let me shift to fully remote status. An otherwise able-bodied man in his prime forced to wear adult diapers in his own home. For shame. My doctor was no help at all. I must have given pints of blood, vial by vial, and I got far too acquainted with the humiliating process of donating stool samples.

I tried everything my doctor suggested though, along with several things I found online. Pills, yogurts, vitamin injections, colon cleanses, colonoscopies, even odd mushrooms and algae I had to import. At best, I would only get a temporary reprieve from errant eruptions before I was back to being terrified of my own flatulence. It was my obsession with finding a cure that first tipped me off to a much larger problem. In the beginning, my hours of internet queries would eventually lead me in circles back to the same old articles and blogs. After another 4 gut wrenching months however, I noticed a significant uptick in certain forum posts and blogs. They all described my same nightmare through other people’s words. I reached out to a few.

We started a support group together; it spread faster than I had imagined it would. We called it “losing control,” and we mostly met through group video chats. The name had dual meanings. Obviously losing bowel control, but also no control over your social environment. Try to imagine any gathering that you could improve by possibly shitting yourself. There aren’t any. We organized and blocked out schedules by region, time zone, and work shift so any lifestyle could find a group. Within 6 months, there were hundreds of chapters across north America, and we were starting to reach across oceans. It was frightening how many people needed us. All of our lives had utterly changed overnight. Most of our shits started on different dates, but all began suddenly.

Most of us could see the writing on the stall after enough doctor visits. If science couldn’t figure this thing out, we would either shit ourselves to death or eventually wear out our GI tracts. It took ten months after I got sick to even identify the damn thing. They called it the Kolovirus, in the Calicivirus family. We all grew tired of hearing those names in the news. Just like its cousin viruses, there was no cure. But Kolo was different from them in 2 distinct ways. The first being, transmission was twice as easy, and second, the effects seemed to be permanent.

By year 2, most of the world was infected. Quarantines barely slowed it down. It was just too easy to spread. Whole industries toppled…Covid was nothing in comparison. Who wants to go to a restaurant, a concert, or to the movies like that? Worse yet, in a poor country with bad medical infrastructure, chronic diarrhea can mean a slow death sentence. By year 3, some estimates say we lost 20% of the world’s population to dehydration and electrolyte imbalance. Most of that was in underdeveloped countries and the extreme ghettos of the industrialized nations. I heard a ton of conspiracy theories start up over the origin of the virus and who it targets. Even birth rates have been in a continuous decline. Who can feel sexy with messy drawers. But hey, the diaper industry is still booming.

I think I’m rambling…Maybe I should have written and posted this before the pills. Anyway, today is the day. Like I said, we’ve been well organized for a while now. We have a ridiculously high percentage of the support group on board. Most of us have convinced several other family members and friends to join us. We are all preparing for it in our own unique way. I’ve really enjoyed reading through everyone’s personal rituals and rites. Some are going to be incredibly touching, and some very exciting…all very human.

Me, I’m going out easy. The bottle of oxy is kicking in and I have my favorite movie on. My dumplings and fried rice just got here, and my dog Tucker is by my side, even though I left the door open for him. I love you all. So good night, farewell, and please excuse the mess.