Dangerously Healthy: Ode to John Wayne and the Return of Typhoid Mary

Though we are quite pleased to have Mrs. Butler back home, this does come at a certain price. For those that have a member of their household who engages in a fair amount of travel for work or pleasure, you will be able to attest to that which I am about to describe. In addition to the mountain of laundry that magically appears in every corner of the house, there is an invisible accumulation that seems a more poignant reminder of their return from distant lands. With them they bring dirty socks, trinkets for the kids, and a veritable party platter of communicable disease. I am usually the lucky recipient of the latter and traditionally the first to receive my gift. It is given the moment the wife arrives and we partake in that inevitable “welcome home” kiss. For the next two weeks I get to enjoy waves of fever induced disorientation, sheet soaking cold sweats, throat constricting glandular inflammation and (if I am really lucky) profuse and gleefully projectile vomiting.

Unfortunately, it would appear that this visit has bestowed upon me my least favorite of these invisible treasures . . . an explosive bout of fecal incontinence that has left my colon down for the proverbial eight count. I find there is nothing so glorious in life as the pride swallowing sprint one makes, with their pants around their ankles, toward the nearest bathroom when this variety of nature comes to call. It is actually quite emotionally cleansing. No matter what your other troubles in life, at that moment there is only one profound thought racing through your brain . . . “Please God, let me make it to the bathroom on time”. The alternative is a horrible trip and fall from your ankle constricting trousers that, upon impact, will cause you to shit yourself senseless and leave you in a messy heap in the hallway. Your home will then become a biohazard and men in white suits will be called to deal with your toxic spill. Walls, floors and ceilings will inevitably need to be cleaned, disinfected and ultimately repainted if not torn down entirely. All of this, of course, will cause an irreversible mental break down that will have you rocking in the fetal position in the corner of a padded cell swimming in a sea of your own tears with a snot bubble forming in your nose while you utter repeatedly fragmented phrases like: “Trip . . . fall . . . boom . . . brown” or “broken dam . . need help”.

This is something I am desperately trying to avoid, so I never stray too far from the toilet. Despite the urgency of this situation, the urgency of continuing with my training that will allow me to walk across Northern Spain in a couple of months has me venturing out against my better judgment. Channeling a little Full Metal Jacket, the conversation with my colon went something like this:

Colon: Well I got a joke for you. I'm gonna tear you a new asshole.
Me: [doing John Wayne impression] Well, pilgrim, only after you eat the peanuts out of my shit!
Colon: You talk the talk. Do you walk the walk?

And just like that, I was off to walk the walk (20 kilometers worth, to be exact). I discovered two amazing truths while out on this hike. First, it is absolutely amazing how quickly one can hike over uneven terrain when they REALLY have to shit. The urgency with which one moves along is nothing short of astounding. Something about puckering really drives the legs forward and before you know it you are shuffling along at break neck speed despite the formidable amount of weight you may be carrying on your back. The second discovery is that endorphins are NOT your friends. Top-shelf athletes like marathoners, triathletes, and really any extremely fit long distance athlete often recite the endorphin rush as the reason they become so hopelessly addicted to these activities. They tout it as this wonderfully healthy natural high. Let me be perfectly clear here, they are deluding themselves. You see, endorphins are your body’s way of protecting your feeble mind. The moment that they kick in, nearly all is already lost. Suddenly you are awash with a heightened sense of wellbeing, and whatever nagging pain that was there begging you to stop your current activity suddenly disappears. Oh, it’s still there, your brain just won’t let you observe it. I like to think of it as the “fresh underpants” theory on impending death. It is sort of like your mother’s wish that, should you become the victim in a violent car accident, when they cut you out of your clothes they will find a sparkling fresh pair of underpants underneath. Your body wants you to die with certain amount dignity. If you were to know just how close you were to death, you would go out in a blaze of soiled under garments and wild flailing movements that nobody wants to see before the finish line. This feeling of euphoria is brought on by the EXACT same force that makes you suddenly feel all warm and toasty when you are about to die from exposure and hypothermia. The moment you start feeling this way . . . YOU ARE ABOUT TO DIE!

The more I hike ridiculous distances, the closer I come to this dreamlike state. The unrelenting pain in my feet begins to ease and on this particular day even my bowels had forgotten their prior engagement. Fortunately, as a barometer for impending doom, the need to relieve yourself is just as adept as a canary in a mine shaft. As I began to slow my pace, pondering my almost certain demise, the cramping returned and fueled the remainder of my hike with a quickened step and affirmation that this day would not be my last here on earth. When I broke the threshold of our comely home, I began shedding myself of my hiking paraphilia like you see lustful ladies do on late night television. Behind me lay a wake of hiking poles, a backpack which burst open spilling its contents, hiking shoes cast aside without the slightest care, all the way down to my last shred of clothing. I was able to take a reflective seat just in time for my Colon to win the war if not this particular battle.

That is all I really see fit to report at this time. If you haven’t been thoroughly disgusted by this point, perhaps you will return again tomorrow for another harrowing adventure in the life of ole Jack Butler. I wish you many happy trails and will see you all again soon, provided of course Typhoid Mary doesn’t see fit to grace us once more with a trip to the far reaches of the globe.

P.S.: Profuse and heartfelt apologies to the wife for I know how she dislikes posts about grotesque bodily functions. What can I say though . . . get your own blog. R.