The Point

Arlo starts asking to go home immediately. “Umm?” he says.

“No, silly, we just got here,” I say. My sister was almost done with the shrimp tacos. I know Arlo won’t eat them, but she always has something in the fridge that he likes. “You want a hot dog?” I ask him.

“Umm,” he says.

“Not yet, buddy,” I say. “We’ll go home in a little bit.”

“Umm,” he says.

An hour later, the rest of us have eaten, but he hasn’t, and he starts to gag. I whisk him to the bathroom. Because of his Nissen, he can’t throw up, but what’s in must come out, so I pull down his pants and sit him on the potty. 

“You feel better?” I say, after he fills it up. 

“Yah,” he says with a giggle. 

“Good,” I say.

“Cake?” he says.

It’s hard to tell sometimes if he’s sick or if he’s just cleaning himself out after a bout of constipation. I don’t always know exactly how much Miralax he’s had; sometimes he pours his water in the dogs’ bowl. 

But he quits asking to go home and eats a piece of lemon cake. That night, he has a pretty gnarly diaper, but he’s in good spirits, so OK.

Approximately twenty-four hours after Arlo’s request to go umm, sharp pains shoot through my belly, short ones at first, growing into a meteor shower of pain in my midsection. I, alas, have no Nissen, and suffer the resulting indignity. The boys more or less put themselves to bed while I lie on the bathroom floor, telling myself aloud, “It’ll pass… It’ll be OK…”

The following morning, I’m not at 100%, but the pain is gone, and I’m even able to eat a little bit. I guess Arlo and I had the world’s shortest stomach virus.

That afternoon, I pull up in car line. Patrick walks over clutching his belly. “My stomach hurts,” he says. 

I remember barfing at least once a year growing up, but Patrick’s almost 9 and I can think of only two instances in his life, both many years ago. That’s why, despite Arlo’s and my woes, all of us are startled an hour later when Patrick projectile-vomits all over himself, me, the couch, the floor, and the bathroom. “It came out my nnnnooooose,” he wails.

But, again, once I Lysol-wipe all the surfaces and he showers, he is basically no worse for wear. I’ll keep him home the next day, of course, but I guess we’re all on the upswing. Thank god. Between the tree falling on my house during a storm a couple weeks prior, and a fucking German roach infestation in my kitchen–disgusting!–I’m feeling sorry for myself. I deserve a break, I pout.

Except an hour later, my nausea returns. I have very little in my stomach, so once that’s out, it’s water and bile. Then just bile. As each wave rips through me, I retch so hard I wonder if my eyes will rupture. The barfing ends at 1:30am, but I don’t sleep–every muscle in my body feels like a blue bruise. 

I had imagined watching movies and strolling around the block with the boys, but the next day, I am supine. When I simply must get up, I moan a little moan with every step. Patrick plays video games for ten hours. I don’t even know what Arlo does. Surely, tomorrow will be better.

At 4:00am, I write lesson plans and send them to my administration and text my sister and brother-in-law: Any way one of you can take the boys to school?

I spend another day unable to do anything but intermittently shuffle, moaning, from my bed to the bathroom, but by late afternoon, I’ve kept down eight crackers and two Tylenol, and I feel well enough to pick up the dudes. 

My vice principal texts to ask if I need a sub for the next day. “Nah,” I tell her.

At 3:00am, I awake with a shiver. I am freezing. The shivers come every five seconds. I turn on the shower as hot as I can, sit down in the stall, wrap my arms around my bent knees, and let the water pour over me. Eventually, I stand and reach for the corner with the shampoo–might as well wash my hair–but the shelf is not there. The wall extends into seeming infinity. For ten terrifying seconds, I’m in an Escher painting. Turns out, I’ve pivoted and am reaching for the wrong corner.

Arlo wanders into my room. “Ear off,” he says. Oh no. I think he’s asking me to turn the pain off in his ear. 

I text the VP: Gonna need a sub after all

I write more sub plans. By 6:00, I’m burning up. I find my cheap thermometer that reads normal as 97.4 and stick it against my temple… 102. Uh, does that mean I actually have a temperature of 103? I take two Tylenol.

My brother-in-law ferries Patrick to school, and at 8:00, I give myself a rapid COVID test (negative) and start calling doctor’s offices. I secure an 11:30 appointment for Arlo, but my provider doesn’t return my message. Perhaps I shouldn’t be driving… The Tylenol have kicked in, so I do. The doc looks in Arlo’s ears and pronounces them “fine.” Yay! Maybe “ear off” meant he couldn’t hear? But then why do they suddenly look fine? Whatever. I’ll take the win.

The urgent care in the next town over has the shortest wait times, so we drive over there. The nurse gives me another COVID test (negative) and asks if I can give her a urine sample. 

“Of course,” I say, but in the bathroom, only a trickle comes out. And it’s the color of sweet tea. Um. 

The doctor looks at my lab results and pronounces me dehydrated. He listens to my various organ noises with his stethoscope and then palpates my abdomen. “How does this feel?” he says, tapping on my side. 

“Not great,” I say. Other side? Also not great.

He taps right about on my c-section scar, and I nearly bend in half. 

“You need to go directly to the Emergency Department for imaging,” he says. “That should not be happening.” When pressed about possibilities, he offers a litany of -itises. I’m not fond of the sound of any of them.

The ED is relatively quiet, save the poor woman retching violently into a bag and moaning, clearly suffering from whatever I had a few days prior. Within half an hour, I’m taken back to triage.The nurse leaves for 15 minutes in the middle of my check-in for an “unresponsive in the car, possible overdose” call, then tells me it should “only” be a couple hours before I’m seen. There are real emergencies, and then there’s whatever I’ve got. Back in the waiting room, I do notice a startling number of people who look like they’re not currently overdosing, but they’ve probably had a snootful of Narcan at some point, and I send up a little “thanks” to the universe. Considering my family history and mental illness, my lack of drug addiction is attributable only to dumb luck.

My brother-in-law picks up Patrick from school, and my sister swings by to grab Arlo. The nurse was right–about two hours after triage, I’m taken back to a curtained bed in an over-air-conditioned ward. The doc comes across as eminently knowledgeable and personable. We chat. She’ll order two liters of fluids and a CT scan, but she guesses my gut is just “repopulating” after the virus, and that’s what’s causing my abdominal pain. 

The IV cranks fluids into my veins. Even after two bags, I still barely pee at all. I guess I was dehydrated. Several boring hours later, I’m wheeled into an even-more-freezing room for my CT. Like other scans I’ve had–MRI, sonogram–the CT machine seems like something out of Star Trek. How does it know things?! Before they wheel me back to my spot, the nurse covers me in a warm blanket, and I want to kiss her and do her laundry and buy her a spa day.

With the passing hours, I become more bored but more reassured. If there was something startling on the CT, they’d surely have whisked me into surgery by now. …Right?

The doc finally swings back by. “I’m sending you home,” she says. Yahoooooooooo! “But–”

Uh-oh. 

“–there were some incidental findings that you’ll need to get checked out later.” I have a lesion on my liver (MRI) and a big cyst on my right ovary (ultrasound). They’re probably nothing, but I’ll need to keep tabs on them.Great, another thing for my to-do list! Whatever. I walk out of the ED $1,049 poorer than I was at noon and take deep breaths of the cool night air.

At home, the boys jump out of their bunks when they hear me come in the door. Patrick inquires sweetly how I’m feeling, and Arlo points out my “bandaid” (the gauze and bandage from my IV). My sister heads home. The three of us fall into bed. 

It’ll take awhile for my pee to turn yellow, and for two more days, the idea of eating is unappealing, then I’m back to craving Nutty Buddies like usual. 

Whenever I write something like this, I want that to be it. Do I have to have a Point? The Point is that this happened to me. The Point is it sucked. But the rules of literature say I should learn something from it. I should change or develop in some way. I should evolve or devolve as a person. I should deliver to you, the reader, some universal truth or lesson that you can connect with or apply to your own life.

I don’t know. Be thankful for your health? Drink water? Things can always get worse, until they get better? The American healthcare system will eventually bankrupt us all? 

How about you say. What’s the point? Tell me. But do drink water.

**********

I want to quit my job, but I can’t afford health insurance, so support me on Patreon! Thank you!

Stop It

Here’s the thing about compulsive eating, and if you’re an alcoholic, addict, or other type of self-destructor, you can sing along with the bouncing ball: I swear to god I want to change. I want it so, so bad. I would compromise my morals if I knew that it would take away the impulse to do damage to myself.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately because I had a conversation on Saturday with a friend of mine that went something like this:

Me: I need to start running, but I’m slower than [our mutual friends who run].

Him: You can keep up with them.

Me: I’m way shorter, and my BMI is way higher.

Him: You can change your BMI.

Me: Well, see, I eat too much.

Him: Do you drink enough water? Water will make you feel full.

Me: Doesn’t matter. I eat when I’m not hungry. I’ve developed some pretty messed-up coping strategies to deal with my emotions.

Him: Well, now that you know that, do you want to continue doing it?

Me: No. I’ve been working on it for about eleven years.

Him: What do you eat during a day?

I recited a list, explained that I eat, for the most part, healthy stuff, but just too much of it because it helps me suppress feelings.

Him: If you take out 350 calories a day—just substitute a big glass of water for one of those snacks—you’ll lose a pound every ten days.

Me: (sigh)

I know this. I know it. I understand the math. I get how calories work. I grasp the concept of energy out versus energy in.

I just can’t stop it. And don’t think I’m not trying. I’ve read books, seen therapists, been in groups, taken skills classes, meditated—shit, I even went to eight sessions of hypnosis. I’m trying. I really, really am.

But some people seem to think this is the solution:

When somebody offers me the “stop it” therapy approach, it actually makes the problem worse. Since that conversation with my friend, I’ve been shoving food in my face like it’s performance art.

And not to blame him; his is a perfectly reasonable solution. I just have an unreasonable reaction to it.

I’d bet most people have something they wish they could just stop doing. Maybe it’s too much food, drugs, sex, gambling, surfing the internet, or watching TV. Maybe it’s being passive-aggressive or getting themselves into unhealthy relationships. Maybe it’s sniping at their significant other. Something that they know is bad for themselves and their relationships but they just feel compelled to do.

I guess, if you don’t have any self-destructive behaviors, there’s no way you could empathize with the struggle of someone who does. But if you don’t have any self-destructive behaviors, then god love ya. Be thankful. And when it comes to offering advice to those with addictions or compulsions, kindly just stop it.

P.S. This post is dedicated my friend, M, who shares my struggle and was told today by another male friend of ours to stop it.

Don’t Make Me Get a Sperm Donor

Just read a story called “Many Women Underestimate Fertility Clock’s Clang” on NPR. The gist: Because you’re 36 <bing>, you’re most likely going to be a spinster <bong>. You hit 40? Forget about it <clang-ang-ang-ang>.

So here it is: I want to have your babies. Why? Because you’re awesome. You’re smart. You have a job. You get along with your family. You drink in moderation. You’re not super-religious. You may not be an Adonis, but you exercise and try to eat healthily, and I find your unconventional visage just delightful to look at.

Most of all, I want to bear your progeny because I find you hilarious. I don’t know, something about the things you say, I just laugh and laugh, and I know that our synergy of humor is what’s going to get us through that night seven years from now when the littler kid can’t stop shitting the bed and the other, inexplicably, decides on that moment to contemplate the meaning of death. “What about Redford? Is he going to die?… Wait, what about ME? I don’t wanna die!”

Oh man. That night’s going to be so terrible. Thank god we can joke about it.

Why should you want to be my baby daddy?

Look at that rack.

In the spirit of full disclosure, it’s not quite that phenomenal without significant structural supports, but it’ll feed your spawn, and in the meantime, enjoy!

Also, I’m smart and fun. Ask my friends. Then again, if you ask anybody’s friends, they’re probably not going to say, “He’s kinda dull. And surly.” But seriously, I’m smart and fun.

So what’s my damage? Why am I 36 and never married? It might have something to do with fear. Not fear of commitment, necessarily, but fear of committing to a bad thing. Or, more, fear of committing to something that starts out good and turns bad and then just living with it because it’s easier than changing myself or my circumstances…

I guess that’s just fear of commitment, isn’t it? OK, well, I don’t have time for that crap anymore. I’ll make a pact if you will that we’ll make it good or we’ll make it done and speak fondly of each other after the fact.

(In addition, I’ll tell you, I have an ugly little habit of withdrawing when I’m stuck or scared or mad—totally unintentional, and I never even realize it’s happening until way after. But I’m working on it! And now you know about it, so when you see it, you can be like, “Hey, where you going?” And I’ll apologize and we can have make-up sex. NB: I reserve the right to pout for 2-6 hours before the make-up sex.)

Listen, I really don’t want to be a single parent. Like, not at all. But I’m just crazy enough to do it. I will fucking go to a sperm bank and read their bullshit profiles and choose some jizz that’s purportedly from Johnny Depp’s doppelgänger but probably really from a Danny DeVito look-alike, and the donor won’t even be funny like him, so I’ll have no It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia shtick to look forward to once the little bastard can talk.

Don’t make me do it.

[Ed. note: I was trying to write a new online dating profile, and this happened.]

Nobody Tell a Joke

On my very first day of CrossFit fourteen months ago, Coach Dave handed me a piece of paper and said, “Read this before you come back.” It was an article about rhabdomyolysis, which is a condition caused when damaged muscle cells break down and enter the bloodstream. Sometimes CrossFitters work out too hard, and then they barf and get all where-am-I? And the puking and confusion can happen during any WOD, but if you have major muscle soreness and swelling (not the good kind, like “Damn, son, you’re all swoll after those presses”, but more like “Yikes, you might wanna ice that”) and your piss looks like sweet tea, you may have rhabdo.

So Saturday the WOD had a whole mess o’ sit-ups, and then I did some major core work with a hula hoop at the CrossFit Durham Halloween party. Short story even shorter, I posted on Facebook that I thought I had rhabdo in my abdos. My tummy was so hurty! Coughing was uncomfortable. Worse, I had a cold, not a bad one but a particularly sneezy variety, and every time I achoo-ed on Monday, a single tear would slide down my cheek from the abdominal pain. Laughing was agony.

Fine, I didn’t actually have rhabdo. My pee, I’m sure you’re happy to hear, looked like Country Time lemonade. The thing about the tear, also a lie. But I did fake-cry and whine. A lot. And laughing really did hurt bad.

Monday’s WOD involved double-unders, box jumps, and kettlebell swings. I tried to protect my stomach muscles as much as possible. In fact, I was so concerned with my abs that I didn’t notice until partway through the workout that my shins felt like they were snapping in two. I know you’re supposed to land like a feather between double-unders and on the box, but alas, I’m a Fat CrossFitter, and I land about as light as locomotive. Every impact felt like my legs might break off mid-calf.

Last night at the gym, my buddy Jack asked, “How’s the abdo?”

I giggled—Ooo! Ow!—and then whined, “So bad! And I have shin splints too!”

“You have abdo and shindo,” he replied. I chortled. Ouch!

“That sounds like a martial art,” I said.

“You have a black belt in abdo shindo. You should list that under your Activities on Facebook,” he said.

And at that point, I laughed and laughed, and I’m pretty sure I really have rhabdo now.

(I don’t really have rhabdo now.)