I had this creative writing teacher–the department chair, actually–who told us once that the difference between fiction and life was that fiction has to make sense.
She also told me, a number of times, “Hope, you can never write autobiography. Nobody would believe it.” If I ever do write a memoir, I swear that’ll be the title.
So today’s episode of “nobody would believe it”:
I had the GI appointment. She had me go get a bunch of lab work done, including a stool sample. I couldn’t produce it on the spot, so they sent me home to do it, with orders that the samples had to be returned to the lab ASAP after their production.
I thought the lab closed at 5:00. I produced my sample around 4:00, but my ride got held up because they’re doing roadwork on pretty much every road in town. We finally got to the lab at 4:45.
But the lab closed at 4:30.
You have GOT to be kidding me. I’m standing here holding a bag of my poo. (Okay, it was in specimen tube things. I didn’t just dump it in a sack.) It’s literally 100 degrees outside, and I need to give this poo to someone before it spoils or whatever.
S and I are just standing there giggling. Then she realizes the lab is part of the local hospital network and suggests seeing if the lab in the actual hospital is open.
It is. So I walk up to the desk and basically ask the lady if I can give her my poo. As long as you’ve got the lab order slip, she says. I do, so she takes my poo.
It was kind of surreal. I’ve heard of leaving flaming bags of shit on people’s doorsteps, but this is a new and different variation on the theme.
You can’t write autobiography, Hope.