Indigestion

This post is about indigestion, as if the title didn't clue you in. Warning for male blood family members: also mentions of throwing up and extremely unsexy nudity. Scroll to bottom for photo.**

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If you've never had it (indigestion), like Brendan, congrats.  Think heartburn invading all of your stomach region and intestines.  If you've never had heartburn we can't be friends anymore, because apparently you aren't making the same kinds of bad food choices I really appreciate in a pal. 

Last night I almost died of indigestion.  What started as a slowly glowing ember of pain turned into a violent confrontation that left me doubled over on the bathroom floor and now writing a blog post about it.  These are the kinds of stories you were hoping for, no?

I've heard that a heart attack can sometimes feel like a bad case of indigestion and I thought about calling Brendan in and telling him, "Make sure Brixton knows I loved him," several times.  Tums didn't help.  Writhing in pain didn't help.  Water didn't help.  Making a sound like, "Ugggggggggh" didn't help. 

Then the sweats started.

Turned out I was sitting on the heater grate. 

Then the sweats really did start and at first I was like "heater grate" and then I realized the heater was off.  And the saliva started.  And the churning. All signs pointing to:

Throwing up.

Now, if you're like me and most people I assume, throwing up is one of the worst things in the world.  Sure, it provides some relief from whatever ails you, but at a price. For me the price is tears running down my face, profuse sweating, weakness, a touch of soap opera grade dramatics, shivering, and of course the vile act itself. 

Throwing up molten lava just wasn't going to be an option, so I laid on my side and tried to keep still while making 101 deals with the Lord above that he'd heal me instantly.  Even though I know he heard my prayers, the healing wasn't instant, but within a few touch and go minutes, the sick feeling subsided.

In the meantime, Brendan had  heard my theatrics and came in.  I couldn't tell him what was wrong for fear of the pukes hearing I was feeling confident enough to talk and coming back to show me what real pain was. 

Instead, he stood there over me in his pajamas (man fur and undies) and watched helplessly as I wiggled around like a decapitated snake.  Also, by this time, I was pantless, because another side effect of feeling like I'm going to throw up is stripping.  Inexplicable.

In any case, the thread of dignity I still have after childbirth spoke up, letting me know I was being observed.  I very sweetly, respectfully, and kindly asked Brendan to go away, so I could be as weird as I wanted to be without a witness.

It's funny how when you're sick, you try to identify the culprit.  You're like, "It was the chicken! I thought the color looked off." or "That salad! I'm never eating salad again." and then the very thought of the perpetrator food makes you even sicker. 

At first, I chalked it up to arsenic poisoning, because I have some imaginary enemies who are just crazy enough to do that.  But after some careful reflection, I figured out it was the combination of miso soup and lemon-lime Gatorade.  Never again, friends.

**Did you really think I'd take a selfie while nude and almost dead on the bathroom floor?  You might want to think about what kind of person YOU are. Hint: One with problems.