An extraordinary diagnosis

When I went to the bathroom that morning, the water in the toilet was pink. Blood. No doubt about it. I pushed it to the back of my mind, willing it away, and got on with my day.

A while later, when I returned to the bathroom, my stool was red. Blood. No ignoring this now. This could be serious. As distasteful as it was, I put a sample in a Ziploc bag and headed to the hospital.

The hospital here is seldom busy, and this was no exception. I told the nurse at the desk what I was there for, and I was seen a short time later. I don't remember the doctor's name, just that he looked like a cross between a farmer and a lumberjack: a fairly tall and sturdy fellow with a black beard and black curly hair, probably in his 40s.

I told him what I'd observed, and waited for the worst.

"Any pain?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Cramping?"

"No."

"Nausea?"

"No,"

"Difficulty going to the bathroom?"

"No."

"Fever?"

"No."

"General unwellness?"

"No, not at all. In fact, I feel perfectly fine."

Oddly, he seemed amused.

"Well," he said, "I can check the sample you brought in, but I think I know what the problem is."

I waited.

"Beets."

I jolted. "Beets?"

He nodded. "Have you been eating beets?"

I thought about it. "Yes. Quite a lot, actually. Night before last. I roasted them, and they were delicious."

Now he grinned. "Okay. Give me the sample and I'll check it anyway, but I don't think you have anything to worry about."

He was back in less than two minutes. "All good. Beets it is!"

On my way out, I stopped at the nurse's desk and leaned in conspiratorially. "I got a diagnosis," I said quietly. "Beets."

It took her a moment to catch on, but she was still laughing as I sashayed out the front door.