Norovirus: The Party Crasher That Hits You Both Ends

The Musings of a Pacific Northwest Scribbler

Norovirus: The Party Crasher That Hits You Both Ends

January 9, 2025

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So the shivering shits have graced our house with their presence—darkened our doorstep, stomped in uninvited, and made themselves right at home. Lovely.

My spouse, who undergoes dialysis three days a week (a grown-up version of preschool complete with the germ buffet), usually avoids the plague thanks to excellent hygiene, mask-wearing, and all that jazz. But me? Oh no, I’m like a walking virus magnet. I collect communicable diseases like stray cats, with a flashing neon sign on my forehead that says, “Come infect me!” So, here I am. Living the dream.

Anyway, I’ve been an ostomy patient since 2016. When I first got my stoma, I struggled to embrace this charming new addition to my life. A wound care specialist suggested I name it to “personalize” the little troublemaker, maybe feel more in control. And thus, my stoma became Donald Trump.

Why Donald Trump, you ask? Simple. My stoma is basically a misplaced butthole—right on my side, not where buttholes traditionally hang out. It’s unpredictable, makes loud, obnoxious noises, has zero manners, and, like its namesake, spews absolute shit whenever it damn well pleases. It just fit.

I’ll admit, I’ve resented The Donald over the years. It changed my life in ways I didn’t want, though yeah, without it, I’d be dead. And while “dead” is pretty final and not ideal, living with The Donald wasn’t exactly a dream either.

Until today.

See, if you’ve ever had Norovirus—the runs, intestinal flu, shivering shits, or whatever cute nickname you’ve given diarrhea—you know it’s a nightmare. Running back and forth to the bathroom, wiping until your butt feels like it’s on fire, gently patting because ow. Pure misery.

But guess what? None of that happens when you have The Donald. Everything goes neatly into its own little disposable bag. No wiping. No sore butt. Just bag swaps. Sure, I’ve had to change the bag a million times today, but you know what? For the first time ever, I’m actually kind of grateful for The Donald.

So yeah, today I’ve discovered the one upside of having a stoma named after a loud, unpredictable weasel. Who knew?

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● About Me

Born and raised in the Pacific Northwest—back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth (or so it feels some mornings)—I’m what you’d call “seasoned.” After a lifetime of wandering around this big, quirky United States, collecting stories, bad habits, and questionable furniture, I’ve found myself right back where I started. Guess home really does call you back, like a determined telemarketer.

This blog? It’s… well, it’s everything and nothing, really. A hodgepodge of childhood memories, random musings, opinions no one asked for, and the occasional tangent about whatever pops into my brain at 3 a.m. Think of it as my mental junk drawer—only slightly more organized and with fewer rubber bands.

If you’re into stories about the good old days (when TV had antennas and phones had cords), reflections on life’s oddities, or just want to hang out in the mind of someone who thinks they’re funnier than they probably are—welcome.

Grab a cup of coffee, settle in, and let’s take a trip through my scribbles. It’s part nostalgia, part nonsense, and all me. If nothing else, I promise you’ll leave here either entertained, confused, or both.

Stick around—there’s plenty more where this came from.