Good thing I didn't have plans this weekend.

The last time I had vomited was almost six years ago. I had gotten food poisoning from something or other, and it first came on like a bad case of acid reflux. I went to work anyway but soon found myself hanging onto the toilet for dear life. Thankfully, my co-worker Andrea stepped up to the plate and covered for the rest of my shift. I then spent the next few days in the hospital. Since then, I’d been on yet another streak. That was until my roommate John went and got himself a viral infection he passed on to me.

Friday started like any other day. I woke up, jogged, showered, left for work. I went through much of the day, feeling just fine. It wasn’t until I was halfway through my Stouffer’s dinner of fettuccini alfredo with chicken that my stomach started acting up. Of course, my first thought was, “Oh, no! John gave me his sickness!” but I tried to deny it for as long as I could. Somehow, I managed to go through the rest of the day, but the feeling kept getting worse. I even ran to the newsstand in the building and picked up a bottle of Pepto Bismol in a vain attempt to quell the madness.

I left slightly early and drove home on one flat tire. (I wasn’t actually aware that that was the problem at the time, but I knew something was wrong.) I was dreadfully afraid that I wouldn’t make it home in time, either because my stomach would decide that it was just time or my car would become undriveable and then my stomach would decide that it was just time. But my will power held, and as soon as I made it into the house, I went to the bathroom and evacuated my stomach of my undigested lunch, the Pepto Bismol and most of the water I’d drunk since about one o’clock that afternoon.

I felt better at first, but that didn’t last long as the fever set in fairly quickly. And the achiness which I’m sure was a result of the dehydration. I struggled into the bedroom, changed into some sweats, and covered up in a heavy quilt. I was shivering like crazy and couldn’t really move due to the aches. This made drinking water a bit difficult. Moving hurt, and I didn’t want to take my arm out from under the covers. Eventually, though, at around 10:00 PM, I realized that I could use some medical attention.

Since no one else was home, I drove myself to Lakewood Hospital’s Express Care Center. (This is only a couple blocks away from my house, so I wasn’t endangering other drivers for more than a few minutes. Oh, and this was still on a flat tire.) I seemed to have lucked out, as there wasn’t anyone else in the waiting room except for a group of people who were there for a family member or friend. I was seen by a doctor in next to no time, and he started me on an IV drip of saline solution to rehydrate me. (They had done the same thing when I had food poisoning, and it had worked wonders, so I was pulling for him to recommend it.) My heart was also racing, so they figured that would probably help to lower its rate.

The last time I was in the hospital, I had a couple songs that cycled ruthlessly through my head. The first was “Down Once More…/Track Down This Murderer” from The Phantom of the Opera. The next day, Comedy Central was showing Arthur, so Christopher Cross’s “Arthur’s Theme (The Best That You Can Do)” was stuck in my brain. Last night, it was Kanye West’s “Gold Digger” and “I Missed Again” by Phil Collins. (The reason for the latter was because I had just gotten over a cold earlier this week, so I was sick again. I then started singing to myself, “Or am I sick again?/I think I’m sick again./Uh-hu-uh./Oh-oh, I’m sick again, uh-uh-uh-huh…” and so on. Not really sure where "Gold Digger" came from.)

The doctor came back at one point and told me that the blood test they had taken showed a high white cell count. He then said the words I had been dreading hearing; “Would you mind if I took a throat culture?”

“Yes, I really would,” I replied. He looked a little shocked by this reply, as though no one had dared resist this idea before. “Throat cultures are one of my least favorite things in the world,” I went on to explain. But of course, I knew that it had to be done. “How many do you have to take?” I asked, since it appeared as though he had brought more than one swab.

“Two.”

“Shit.”

I opened my mouth as wide as I could and said, “Aaaahhh…” but as soon as that thing hit my esophagus, I began to gag and close up. He didn’t get the culture, so I had to do it again. That time, he kind of got it, but wasn’t entirely sure. He took the second, which seemed to go better, but still had the same traumatic effect. I was feeling charitable, though, so I asked him if he wanted to take a third just to be sure he got it. Like a champ, I let him jam the swab down my throat. To those of you who can take a throat culture without gagging, I salute you. (And to those of you who can take a throat culture without gagging and are women, let me give you my phone number…¹)

The throat culture came back negative, so I guess it didn’t need to be done. Assholes.

I drifted in and out of sleep for the next couple hours, being awakened both by a shrilly crying baby and a guy in the next room who was snoring like my dad². At one point, a nurse came in to give me two Tylenol tablets for the fever and aches, which I’m sure will cost about $5 per pill. Later on, she gave me Motrin, which probably added another $10. She had me take it with some ginger ale. (Probably about $3, and it was just one of those single serving thingies.)³

Roundabouts two o’clock in the AM, the nurse came in to give me a flu test. I’m not precisely sure why that hadn't been the first order of business instead of the strep test, since I didn’t have a sore throat and the doctor hadn’t seen any signs when he looked at my tonsils. Nevertheless, it was the second choice, and I was just relieved that they didn’t have to take another throat culture. Instead, she jammed the swab up my nose farther than anything should ever go. In case you’re wondering, it hurt. A lot. It also caused my eyes to water like a leaky faucet and my mucus production to increase one-hundred-fold.

After about ninety minutes, I discovered that this test’s results also turned out to be negative. So I apparently had some kind of miscellaneous viral infection, which meant that they couldn’t really do too much for me. Thankfully, the IV bags and pain relievers had managed to make me feel much, much better. My heart rate had also finally started to slow, so they assured me that I’d be allowed to leave soon. In the meantime, I watched Mr. Show and Bravo’s Ultimate Superheroes countdown show⁴ (narrated by Adam West; love that guy).

I ended up being discharged around four o’clock that morning. I drove home, called my parents to let them know I was alright⁵, and crashed into bed.

I feel pretty good now. My stomach is still kind of blecch-y, but at least I can hold stuff down. Oh, and I got my car fixed today. Bless those folks at Lucas Auto Center on Madison who keep such great hours.

1. I wish to apologize to any readers I have offended with this comment, but I thought it was pretty damn funny. Back

2. To those of you who have never heard my dad snore, he’s really loud. Back

3. I hope to God those figures are truly just humorous exaggerations (or just exaggerations, if you didn’t find them all that funny). Back

4. I swear, Bravo and VH1 should team up and form a station called The List Show Channel. They’re fun and all, but man, isn’t there other programming they can devote their time to?Back

5. I had already called them earlier before I left for the hospital, so they were expecting a call from me.Back