When I was a kid, someone told me that thunder is caused by angels bowling in heaven. I thought that explained a lot. I also thought it was a bit rude, but who am I to suggest a tame game of checkers, over bowling, to angels?
So if the rumblings we hear are caused by angels, then there must be a whole bunch of them hiding out in my stomach right now because it hasn’t stopped making noise for the last two hours.
That was a good transition, wasn’t it?
This past weekend wasn’t too kind to me. Actually, Saturday was fine. Sunday was horrendous. I guess this story starts where Sunday started – midnight.
I was sitting on the couch, watching TV, and trying to decide what to do next. Did I want to go read, blog, sleep, or peruse YouTube until I got to the weird parts?
Or, did I want to stay right where I was for another hour and wait for the first race of the Formula 1 racing season to come on?
My decision was made for me.
Out of nowhere, my stomach started hurting. I had this “full” feeling in my stomach. As if I just ate at a restaurant and a few buttons needed to be undone.
Except I hadn’t been at a restaurant, and I hadn’t put food in my mouth for at least five hours. Why was this happening now? At midnight?
I decided I would stay up and watch the race until 2:30am because that would give my stomach enough time to
get its marching orders and calm down. It didn’t calm down.
I went to bed and tried to fall asleep. When you want to avoid anything, you sleep, right? Try as I did, sleep wasn’t coming. Probably because I was forcing myself to sleep on my side, which I never do.
Finally, I dozed off. I only know this because at 5am I woke up breathing heavily, sweating, and knowing that I needed to find a washroom.
I’m smart, so I brought the garbage can next to my bed with me.
That made the, “Which end do I direct at the toilet, when it feels like both need it” decision, easier for me. Don’t even laugh, you’ve all been there before. It’s the washroom version of Russian roulette.
Oh yeah, this blog post is going to get a bit messy. Warning.
I got to the toilet and immediately felt like I was going to pass out. It felt like I was about to do a somersault off the toilet – gymnasts would have been proud.
My stomach was in so much pain, I didn’t know what was happening.
Somehow, I got the pipes working, without passing out.
If any of you find that last line gross, you’re lucky I’m telling the clean version of this story.
I returned to “normal” (not really, I just wanted my bed), and returned to my bed.
7am rolled around and I woke up in another panic. Uh oh. Here we go again. Again, I bring the garbage can with me.
This time, I almost passed out again. Maybe I subconsciously want to be a gymnast and practising somersaults, while unconscious, is my version of “dipping my toes” into a new sport? Nahhh.
I find that I am most determined, two seconds before I know I am going to throw up. Because in my head, I try to avoid vomiting at all costs, but as soon as I know it’s inevitable, I give myself a mini pep talk. It goes like this.
“Get it all out now, you are not doing this again for at least another 18 months. You hear me? You are not coming back in here in two hou…blahhhhhh.”
I find that I throw up every 18 months, or so. A few weeks ago, I was thinking about how it had been a long time since “the last time.” I guess I knew.
I hate vomiting. I hate the smell. I hate the feeling in my throat. I hate opening my eyes to see the colour of it and relating it back to something I ate, just so I could blame something.
Orange. Carrots. Aha! So much for being healthy.
It was finally over. I was a new, empty man. Only problem was, my legs were asleep. I limped over to the sink and splashed water on my face because that’s what people do in movies.
Then I went to bed and didn’t wake up until 4pm, Sunday afternoon. A personal record. Well deserved, I think. I had been through a lot and had almost no sleep. Plus, there weren’t any sports on TV, so what was I really missing?
I woke up and had plain spaghetti noodles. They were awful. They reminded me of an eating contest at camp, when I had to eat a bowl of coloured spaghetti because I was Italian.
This is where you can make the “vomit on his sweater already, mom’s spaghetti” jokes.
They were so dry; I could still taste the water on them.
I had a few fork-fulls and sent it away.
Then I had an apple. It was the most delicious apple I’ve ever had.
That was all the food I ate on Sunday. I didn’t want anything else because I didn’t want to throw up again and break up that whole “18 month” thing.
I knew what was coming, though.
I got a headache that night. I went to sleep at 10:30pm, after putting in a solid 6.5 hour day.
I didn’t really sleep. I woke up every hour, on the hour, and my head was throbbing. Do you know what throbbing is? It was as if there was a person in my head and they were punching it from the inside.
If I rolled over into a different position, or sat up, this person with a fist the size of China, would find a different part of my head to abuse.
Finally, around 6am, I got smart and took a Tylenol.
And then it was all hush little baby, don’t say a word, mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. I was asleep.
THIS IS THE PART THAT RELATES TO THE TITLE.
The next morning, I asked my mom if she came in to talk to me around midnight. She said she couldn’t remember. I said I remembered her coming in, but don’t know what she said.
THEN, she came back to me with a post-it note she found in her room. She wrote down what I said to her when she came to check on me at midnight.
I said to her, “Do you want a cupcake?”
She told me she couldn’t stop laughing.
So if any of you were wondering…yes, I will still be the funniest person in the room and make you laugh, even when I’m half asleep and have no idea what I’m saying, or to who.
On Monday, I ate a mashed banana, because mashed bananas are my preferred way of eating bananas, and a bowl of soup. That held me over until dinner, when I had my first “real meal” since “the event that shall not be named.”
I’ve turned vomiting into Voldemort. Deal with it.
I spent the rest of the night with a heavy stomach and went to sleep negotiating with it.
“We had a promise. 18 months, remember?”
“Shut up. No mas.”
My stomach is Spanish. It also isn’t nice. But I survived the night.
Fast forward to Tuesday. I ate a bowl of soup and another “real meal” for dinner.
And now I’m sitting listening to fireworks in my stomach. It sounds like a pinball machine in there. It’s like my stomach is a computer that has been rebooting for the last few hours.
It’s an orchestra, really. Okay, not really.
I could go on with the analogies forever.
Have I mentioned that I’ve lost weight from all this? Three pounds. Gone. Just like that. Actually, they were gone by the time I woke up Sunday afternoon.
I can notice a difference in my face, and to a lesser degree, my stomach.
My stomach is still like a juice box. It will contort itself on command.
My face, though…well, I now have the perfect jawline for a shampoo commercial. So to the fine, and dandruff-free, folks at Head & Shoulders, holla atcha boi (or whatever kids who want endorsements deals for no reason say).
So that is my current predicament.
This whole ordeal just confirms my suspicions – I would not last more than a day on Survivor. If I don’t eat, I will eventually get a headache. It’s life science.
Throw in the trials of being in the sun all day (without a hat), while fetching food and trying to vote out smelly people who sleep next to me in the shelter, and you’ll find me doing more than somersaults off of a makeshift toilet in the jungle.
I wouldn’t be able to do it. A comfortable home, with a furnace, managed to send me into a frenzy. Survivor would kill me.
As I currently sit here, I’m still not comfortable eating food. I’m not excited to eat tomorrow. I’m probably going to avoid the “real meals” and eat mashed bananas and apples until the giraffes come home.
I’m going to try and sleep now.
Keep me in your prayers. Little Pauly had a big tummy ache (I’m stretching my arms to show you how big) and is still recovering.