“You got cholera!” I squealed to my friend after auditions for our college play.

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“No I don’t,” she scoffed, and then explained: Cholera is a nasty, gut-wrenching illness that most characters in the play die from—not my character’s name.”

At the time, it was just a theatrical joke. Little did I know…

June 3: I had to have a colonoscopy. After thirty years of gastrointestinal adventures, I really think I should qualify for some sort of punch card—or at least complimentary IV fluids.

This time I was understandably hesitant about the bowel prep because it contained sucralose, which my body expels in an explosive manner.

I approached the prescribed elixir as best I could and watched a YouTuber make mocktails. Then stocked up on every flavor of sparkling water I could find.

Some of those mocktails weren’t half bad, but there simply isn’t enough flavoring in the world to disguise that vile concoction. It’s lipstick on a pig. Lipstick on a pig.

The results were swift, dramatic, and effective enough that I was able to stop drinking the offending liquid long before I finished what had been prescribed.

Cheers to cholerrhea.

Unfortunately, this didn’t appease my nasty mast cells. Add in the likelihood that I compromised my GLP-1 meds by letting the heat get to them too…sometimes I get tired of mast cells acting up like a pubescent teen. Who know’s why they’re rebelling. 

June 19: By the time I saw my allergist-immunologist, I wasn’t feeling wonderful, but we agreed the great purge, not keeping GLP1 cool, and the stress of totaling my vehicle were doing no favors to my system.

June 30: I traveled to Washington, D.C. The heat was a record breaking and oppressiveness. I stayed in the air conditioning as much as possible and managed fairly well after an eventful Independence Day and a trip to Arlington National Cemetery.

July 5: I was spending time with family I hadn’t seen in years. Sometime after we ate, I had to make a mad dash to christen yet another porcelain throne with a fresh case of colorrhea. At this point, that’s really all it was—another porcelain throne.

Only this time, as I sat there, incredible stabbing pain shot through my abdomen. For a fleeting moment I wondered if I might actually need emergency medical services. This was the first worst abdominal pain I’ve ever experienced—far beyond my usual mast cell mayhem. Evventually, the pain—and the excrement—subsided.

The next morning I learned another family member had also become sick after the meal, although not nearly as severely as I had. I’m thinking food contamination.

Over the next ten days I had regular episodes that required an immediate sprint to the nearest bathroom. Unfortunately, I’m kind of accustomed to this conundrum. My life has included more than its share of rumbly tumblies and explosive diarrhea, both at home and while traveling, so I honestly figured this would eventually pass.

The books on the shelf behind me should have been my first clue: The color of Death

and A Dark and Deadly Journey.

Then the news became filled with reports of Cyclospora outbreaks. Between the oppressive heat and the continuing diarrhea, I became increasingly weak and dehydrated.

Returning home from Washington, 5 pounds lighter, I only had a few days before leaving for another conference. With hundreds of people gathering there, I thought it would be wise to stop at the walk-in clinic before boarding another airplane.

Which, of course, meant providing a stool sample. Thankfully, stool collection has improved dramatically since the old days when we essentially had to sacrifice a Cool Whip or Country Crock container to science.

The nurse explained that if I couldn’t bring the sample directly to the lab, it would need to be refrigerated. Fortunately, I was able to collect it while the laboratory was open, so I delivered it piping fresh only three hours before leaving for North Carolina. I didn’t want to be that passenger whose explosive diarrhea caused an airplane to turn around.

While I was at the conference, the lab results came back negative for Cyclospora and the other usual gastrointestinal suspects. The allergist suggested increasing my cromolyn sodium, but that was ineffective and thought I might need a colonoscopy. Seriously…I just had one, but if it’s absolutely necessary, at least I won’t have to do the bowel prep. Then he presented another thought: maybe between the colonoscopy prep and whatever I’d picked up in Washington DC, I’d essentially pressure-washed my gut bacteria and suggested a probiotic, and it was the magic pill. The explosive watery diarrhea finally settled down, and hopefully replenishing my gut bacteria is the missing piece.

Who knows how this mast-alanche started—I’m weary of chasing the root cause and just want to get my body back to baseline. Thankfully, it wasn’t cholera or Cyclospora. Somehow, despite all of this, I still traveled, still laughed with family and friends, and of course found a few adventures along the way.

I’m just hoping the next time someone says, “You got cholera,” it’ll stay where it belongs—in the 18th century.