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NOW THAT'S SICK
23 April 2006
I was lying on the couch in the living room trying to remember the old medication of my childhood which was advertised by some pain monster (green, as I recall) hitting someone in the stomach and the victim bent over. I kept coming up with "Peter Pain," but I was fairly sure that was an ad for curing arthritis pain (Ben Gay, as it turns out).
So I came in to the computer and did a search on "pain" and came up with all sorts of wonderful photos, but this one seemed to work best.
That pretty much explains how my abdomen felt when I woke up this morning. Maybe not quite this painful.
The mental image that came to mind through the haze of my brain was a bunch of tiny little men with needle-sharp jackhammers walking up and down my stomach and trying to drill through.
I had, of course, just watched Survivor last night, when poor Bruce had to be taken off the island on a stretcher because he was so "backed up" that he was unable to eliminate anything and was writhing in pain.
I quickly ascertained that this was not my problem. Far from it.
I took a sip of coffee and knew instantly that I would definitely not be having my morning cup of Peet's French Roast.
Walt was upstairs getting dressed and I climbed into the recliner. Maybe if I could just sleep a few more minutes, until he came downstairs and I made his toast.... One blanket wasn't enough. I put on the fleece jacket I bought in Australia and pulled two blankets over myself.
It was 10 a.m. before I woke up. I had no recollection of Walt coming downstairs. I vaguely remember the puppies making noise at their usual 9 a.m., but they were now asleep again and I drifted off to sleep again until they woke up at 11.
I fed them all, let them get a little exercise and by the time they were slowing down I realized that--by golly, I really wanted some more sleep.
I wrote to the Davis Musical Theatre Co. to let them know that I would review The Wizard of Oz tomorrow night instead of tonight-- probably a good idea to let them get opening night kinks out anyway. I can't think of anything I wanted less tonight than to go to the theatre to see anything.
I also sent an e-mail to Walt letting know how long I'd slept. He called instantly and I told him about postponing the show tonight. He said that in that case, he'd go wine tasting at the food co-op on his way home from work. I suggested he pick up something for himself to have for dinner.
I put the puppies into into the playpen and I climbed into the recliner and next thing I knew Emeril Lagasse was telling me how to make something en papillote. It was 2:30 p.m. The puppies were still sleeping.
I decided, on a whim, to see if maybe my temperature was elevated. When I stood up, the tiny men with the jackhammers renewed their efforts and I staggered to the kitchen to get the thermometer and then thought I might feel more comfortable while waiting for the temperature to register if I lay down, so I went into the living room and lay down on the couch.
101.8°. Well, hey--that's a real legitimate reason for feeling like shit. Now I could give into it, I had a real reason for not transcribing. Sheila came downstairs and was very gentle with me--another way I could tell I was sick. Even the dog knew it.
I also realized that it was now 3 p.m. and I hadn't had a thing to eat, but nothing sounded good.
So I did the only logical thing that someone who has a bunch of jackhammers pricking into her skin, who can't eat, and who has a temperature of 101.8 would do--I came in here, did a Google image search on "pain" and then wrote this entry.
Now THAT's sick!
PHOTO OF THE DAY
Is that not the cutest face?