It all started Monday night with my all time favorite food - a ground beef burrito from Monica's Taco Shop. It was delicious as usual.
About half an hour later, I was hanging out with a few of my favorite high school friends when my stomach started to hurt. Then it started to hurt some more, then more still. I figured I better get outta there, 'cause if I was gonna throw up, the last place I wanted to be was within earshot of thirty teenagers.
When I got home, I did everything I could think of to avoid throwing up. I laid down on my side, but it didn't make any difference. I took some Pepto, but that just made it worse. I changed from jeans into a pair of pants with virtually no elastic left in the waistband, but it was no use.
"Alright, Emily. It seems you're all out of options. Let's do this." (Uhh...that was me talking. To myself. In case that was unclear.)
As I knelt down in preparation to do the deed, I was struck by how absurd this whole "throwing up" business really is. I mean, you have to be pretty desperate for relief if it's come to a point where you're willing to put your face in a place where poop usually goes.
So I'll spare you the gory details, but I got sick. And for the first few minutes afterward, I felt better. "That wasn't so bad," I thought to myself. "I'll just pretend I'm doing research for an article like a real
Tuesday afternoon I still felt awful (even though the vomiting had mercifully come to a halt) so I decided to call my doctor. They said they couldn't get me in until the following morning. The thought of a repeat performance of the previous night's events made me want to puke (no pun intended...oh how I wish there were a pun intended) so I had Gary take me to EmergiCare.
They did a rapid flu test (which is a fancy way of saying they shoved a giant q-tip up my nose and swabbed my brain) and the results came up negative, so I kind of started to wonder if I was making the whole thing up. I figured they'd probably tell me to drink more water and send me on my way, but to my surprise they said I needed an iv of saline because I was severely dehydrated.
This is another part where I will spare you the details of how I almost passed out at the sight of my own blood pooling up in the little nozzle thing that goes in your arm. (Oh, uh...I guess I didn't spare you the details at all. WHAT? I'm still on medication, okay?)
A couple of hours later I went home and waited for the saline solution to work its magic. I waited. And waited. Took a nap. Waited some more. And then I snapped.
WHAT THE HECK?!? WHY DON'T I FEEL BETTER? I WENT TO EMERGICARE! IT HAS THE WORD EMERGENCY IN IT! Okay not exactly but it has the prefix - YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!
WHY DON'T I FEEL BETTER INSTANTLY?!
And that is the story of how
The moral of this story is that even when all signs point to food poisoning, there's still a good chance you'll catch your husband heating up the other half of the burrito that almost killed you.
THE END
1 comment:
Sounds like my husband. And knowing his steel stomach, he probably would've been fine eating it, too. Not fair.
Feel better.
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