Eat Shit: Why I Need a Fecal Microbial Transplant
My doctor, straight-faced and solemn, advised me to eat shit—and for once, I knew he wasn’t speaking metaphorically.
Welcome to my microbiome: a devastated battlefield, a simmering cauldron of GERD, colitis, gastroenteritis, and rectal cancer—a disaster zone that could have used FEMA a decade ago. As it turns out, the cavalry charging to my rescue wears lab coats and surgical gloves, carrying in their sterilized pockets someone else’s perfectly cultivated excrement.
They call this miracle grotesquerie a Fecal Microbial Transplant (FMT). It’s the cutting edge of gut restoration. European doctors, eternally ahead of us Americans in accepting bodily absurdity, have published staggering results. A 2022 Danish study from Aalborg University showed that 67% of patients with severe ulcerative colitis entered remission after receiving fecal transplants, compared to a mere 33% from conventional drugs. Another research team in the Netherlands found compelling evidence suggesting that FMT might even help alter gut microbiota to support cancer treatments.
Turns out, my gut has been troubled since birth. See, I was plucked into existence via cesarean, a surgical eviction that denied me nature’s rather unsettling gift: a mouthful of my mother’s microbiome—yes, including her fecal bacteria. There’s weird science behind this notion; studies indicate c-section babies have higher instances of autoimmune and digestive disorders, possibly due to missing this bacterial initiation. Now, I’m not saying skipping this nauseating rite of passage landed me here, but let’s acknowledge it’s peculiar enough to entertain, albeit briefly, amidst the chaos of my gut.
Desperation pushes you into peculiar corners.
FMT comes in two unappetizing forms: Option one, colonoscopically-delivered donor stool injected directly into your troubled colon—think of it as artisanal compost spread over your withered garden. Option two, a set of pills filled with freeze-dried donor feces. A more palatable presentation perhaps, if swallowing capsules of powdered poop can ever be considered palatable.
Netflix, ever the distributor of cultural nightmares, showcased a woman cheerily blending her brother’s stool into daily capsules, an act she described as life-changing and I describe as profoundly traumatic. Yes, I need healthy gut flora, but swallowing a sibling smoothie? I’d sooner choose hospice.
Every medical professional in my life—the gastroenterologist, oncologist, primary care doctor, naturopath—has cheerfully prescribed this revolting remedy. Yet insurance calls it “experimental,” refusing coverage and forcing me to face a $10,000+ price tag for what is, essentially, medically endorsed scatological art.
So, dear reader, here’s my candid plea: if you can spare a dollar, or ten thousand, consider donating to my FMT fund. Help me eat shit, not out of spite or disgust, but in hope—however slim—that this absurd therapy might actually work.
A blog post by Rachel Smak on grief, loss, and lessons from stage 3C rectal cancer
