This is What It’s Like to Navigate the Underground World of Fecal Transplants
How to find the holy grail of a “superdonor” in the Wild West of FMT
Pursuing FMT was a series of hurdles that felt like navigating a funhouse MC Escher illusionary maze while tripping on acid. Lots of wrong turns, deadends, confusion, and disappointment sandwiched between occasional glimmers of hope and escape.
When I first heard of FMT from Mothership, I ricocheted from elation to dejection so rapidly it gave me whiplash. It did sound like the most viable possible treatment for my situation, but it was too new to be accessible.
That was Hurdle 1: I did not have the only condition approved for treatment (C. Diff).
“I’d poop in a box for you. I love you that much,” one friend with self-proclaimed “guts of steel” offered as a DIY alternative. “Guts of steel” and a healthy biome can be mutually exclusive, but I didn’t know that yet. Rather, I rejected her offer because I was still too occupied with the ick factor of FMT (POOP??? FECES???? AS MEDICINE???), very much not wanting that to be my story. I am a storyteller at heart, and SAVED BY POOP PILLS was not the wrapped-in-a-bow ending I had been hoping for in this grand adventure called life. But this hangup was making the mountain that much higher for me.
