I Hate My Body: Stomach Flu

Hola from the nest of grump!


(via Rafa Toro)



I have the stomach flu. My body temperature is 100.5 degrees. My muscles ache. I'm all diarrhea and nausea, but no vomiting, although there have been a couple close calls which involved me leaning over the bathtub, waiting for the custard to spurt. And gas. My entire torso is bloated with malevolent air.

All I can think about, besides wanting to sleep through this whole ordeal, is that I need to be careful about what I eat, drink, and watch.

Hear me out on this...





In 2002, I had a two week stomach episode and ate nothing but Club crackers during that time. I can no longer eat Club crackers because of the negative connotation they hold in my sensory bank. Which isn't so bad. There are other crackers in the world. Like my Uncle Barry, for instance. But it sets a very dangerous precedent for future sicknesses.

I gotta be wary. I don't want to accidentally eliminate any favorite food and drinks from my diet forever. And I don't want a likable movie or TV show to get ruined with poisonous flu memories.

Example: When Masters of the Universe came out in the theaters, my parents took me and a friend to go see it. I was 5 at the time. Little Kid Douche (not talkin' bout my penis) gave it 4 stars. On the ride home, my friend power puked inside my dad's Camaro (yup). A few years ago, the movie was on TBS. I wanted to see it again, but I had to change the channel. All I could think about was my dad retching while he scrubbed the soiled car seats. He sold it a month later. And my friend blamed popcorn for the barf. Never ate popcorn again.

You see what I'm getting at? I need to rest and watch TV to take my mind off my ill health, but the potential for a tragic association stalks my thoughts. Therefore, I can't see new movies, only old ones. And TV shows I've watched a billion times.

I'm also going to be carefully consuming off brand versions of the food and drinks I like, just in case. Nothing from my regular diet. I will ingest Powerade, Canfield ginger ale, Eden soy milk, and Carr's water crackers. With these items, I hope to nurse myself back to health.




My body is a prison, and until I get better, I'm going to watch The Simpsons over and over again. And maybe Robocop.

Getting Pissy About Diarrhea

True story time! Also, the second Nest of Grump entry.

Please note that this is a post about my guts. I have written a letter to my stomach. Don't enjoy belly aching? Well, you're never gonna get anywhere with that attitude. And if you're reading this while taking a poo, I love you unconditionally.

(via Fart Party. Love ya, girl)


First, some recent history...

I have stomach issues. Straight up. I had an endoscope put down my esophagus in July. In fact, that experience was the catalyst for this blog. The GI doctor that performed the procedure didn't find anything physically wrong with me, therefore limiting any effective treatment. Official diagnosis, dyspepsia. Essentially, I have IBS of the upper intestines. He put me on some muscle relaxants that supposedly target the intestines, but the results have been mixed at best.

I've also been told (and believe) that 80% of my stomach problems are caused by my mind and the anxieties that dwell within it. Nerves in the gut have the highest amount of serotonin in the body. Serotonin is a neurotransmitter that regulates mood. I'm a moody fucker. Correlation? You bet your cthulhu.

In conclusion, I have the capacity to cause my own physical suffering. Neat!


Onto my letter...


Dear My Stomach,
I know we haven't really talked in a while, but I feel that some things need to be addressed. About us. Please bear with me and take what I say into consideration. You'll always be a part of me, that's a given. But, tell me, how did it ever come to this?

We used to be so close. Remember back in high school, when I fed you grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and Mongolian Beef for dinner, with a couple Twix bars in between? Yeah, you remember. You broke down all that stuff with the grace of a figure skater. Those were some good times. We had a great love for each other back then. An excess of love, actually. I was fat. Remember?

(2002)

But you were industrious and I was happy back then. Even when I was eating entire pizzas, 4 times a week, you never hassled me. We were in love with amounts and flavors. Chinese buffets and microwaveable junk food. Pop Tarts and burritos. Cheddar Sun Chips and peanut butter. Crab Rangoon! Those were the days.



Sure, I felt bad about my body. Buying larger pants and trying to conceal man-boobs took a toll on my self-esteem. Forever. But you never betrayed me with pain or digestive difficulty. You did your job and I did mine.

Then, about six years ago, you started to rebel against my cavalier eating habits. You stopped breaking down dairy. Pizza, once a source of delight, became an agent of distress. Horrible cramps and diarrhea occurred. I had to sacrifice all lactose. I felt greatly restricted at first. But with a little time and some perspective, I got over it. After all, everything else was still fair game. We were still pals. There was no use lamenting the things I could not change. Tacos without cheese are still delicious. And without cheese in my diet, I was able to drop a few pounds. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. I went from 255 to 180. Not bad.

(2005)

But the hostility didn't stop there. It grew. Tacos soon brought with them a nauseous wrath. Butter made my belly bubble. Eggs, spicy foods, green peppers, pie. All became forbidden after incurring hefty penalties. And the list of verboten vittles continued to swell.

What exactly were you trying to prove? I mean, what the fuck?!

And lately, you've gotten mean. For the past three years, you have made my life a living hell, not to mention severely limiting my food options. I have discovered that you will not tolerate anything with fats or oils in them. There's not a fried thing I can eat without indigestion, nausea, bloating, and heartburn. Nuts are out. Guacamole? Nope. Chocolate? Not unless I want some Chernobyl farts. No more steak, either. Peanut butter cookies, gone.

You tyrant!

The things I can eat without problems? Cereal, oatmeal, toast, rice, chicken, turkey, dry crackers, pasta, soy milk, and other bland edibles. Woo-fucking-hoo.




If you disapprove of anything I give to you, anything that even slightly glistens, you make the next 6 or 7 hours of my life unbearable. All I can do is drink water and ride it out while watching TV. I can't go out. I can't write or be funny. All my efforts are put into recovering from these erratic bouts of lousiness. Do you realize that my quality of life, our quality of life, suffers from your never ending wickedness? Something has to change. And soon.

I know that I may have overworked you in the past, but those days are long over. There's no need for revenge, partner. I cut a lot of bad shit out of my diet for you. We've hit a rough patch, sure, but without your appetite suppression tactics, I wouldn't own the lean body that I sport today. I'm grateful to you for that.

Sex-machine. Minus the sex.



But, this can't go on forever. It just can't. The future I desire doesn't include agonizing nights curled up in a ball, clutching my stomach. I'm at the end of my rope. If you stop this war right now, all will be forgiven. I want a truce. I want for us to be buddies again. I'm reaching out to you. Please take my hand.

All My Love,
Kid Douche

Impregnate All Them Nuns

Been watching too much TV lately. Political shows reinforcing my beliefs, never expanding. Cartoons overloading my senses. Chicago Cubs team that shows no heart. Gave True Blood a chance. First four episodes are 95% shit. Not gonna watch it anymore. Short sentences becoming pretentious.




No more clothes for me. Too much maintenance. No more showers. Too wet. Stomach-aches gone when I get doctors to take belly away and pass into non-eating dimension. Heaven is no body maintenance. No pee. No shit. No shower. No shave. No teeth. No eat. No drink. Heaven doesn't exist. Oh well.

Sadder Day

Today, I was visited by an old acquaintance of mine who I hadn't seen in a while. I call him Depression Toad.


Up until a few weeks ago, I hadn't felt his presence in months. I had problems, sure, but nothing that couldn't be defeated with Internet porn, taking a walk while listening to music, reading magazines while drinking coffee, or thinking about Ol' Dirty Bastard.



Then, my Zayde passed away. My enthusiasm for life, this blog, getting a job, and personal relationships greatly waned. I don't know if it was seeing my Bubbie in tears or lack of sleep coupled with the stress that week, but my general attitude changed. I was on a pretty good roll for a few months there, even after some invasive procedures into my stomach and teeth. But those three days in Toronto killed it.

When I got back, I decided that I needed new furniture, and spent too much time on craigslist procuring new items. I made new business cards. I got weirder with this blog. I did everything but sit down and talk about my shit to someone who cares enough about me to listen without passing judgment.

I realize now that I was just trying to keep myself busy, because I already knew that I had lost a step, and wanted desperately to keep rolling on as if nothing had changed. This faulty behavioral path backfired, obviously.

And today was a wakeup call. I got up after 11 hours of sleep, drank some coffee, felt horrible, took a nap, woke up, felt like compressed gray gloom, got invited out to a bar by a friend, declined, felt guilty, ate some food, and here we are.

The good thing is that I realize what I must do to pull out of this tailspin, and I will. But today reminded me of bleak Chicago winters, especially last winter, when everybody feels the way I did today; alone, tired, irritable, not wanting to go out, and having to psyche yourself up to get up and go to the bathroom or make something to eat.

I truly fear those winter days, because I need a little help from somebody who cares during those times. But it's hard to get together, as people are reticent to do anything outside their comfortably heated apartments, and they probably feel like shit as well. I'm not good on the phone, so I need to meet up with someone in person. But it takes a reason or a gimmick to get someone to come out of the house when it's 14 degrees outside and the sun was last seen with its father, Gilberto Hernandez, last November (missing children jokes are hilarious, right?). God, Jesus, Allah, and Buddha, I hate the fucking winter!

But maybe that's what this blog is for, on certain occasions. Letting off some steam so my pipes don't burst. Shifting the burden of sadness from me onto you. I hope my wretched rant wasn't too much, and if you've gotten this far, thanks for reading. I feel better already.

What do you say, Depression Toad?

Adventures in endoscopes

So I got an endoscope put down my throat on the 9^th to get my tummy box checked out.

(Here's Tiger Woods winning the inside-out lottery)

I couldn’t sleep the night before and had to take a cab to the hospital. My mom accompanied me because I couldn’t be released into the world all drugged up and alone, or else a prowling LL Cool J would surely #### the shit outta me.

(Later on he crashed a wet t-shirt contest)

I was led into a small sterile room with a bed in the middle and monitors lining the walls. The nurse asked me what prescriptions I took, and after my pharmaceutical shout-outs, she said that they would have to give me MORE sedation than they would give to a normal patient. I said, “Hey baby, do your thing,” and then spit in my hand and offered it for her to shake.

We somehow got onto the topic of films, and she mentioned that she hated American films and loved foreign films.

(worst movie I ever saw)

“Word, couldn’t agree more… now about those drugs… when is that happening?”

So she put the IV in and pumped me full of Fentanyl and Versed. I started to feel slightly under a spell when the doctor came in. He asked me how I was feeling and I said, “Pretty gooooood, how are you feeling?” He told the nurse to give me more Versed. He sprayed this awful tasting foam in my mouth and told me to swallow. It tasted like this Japanese weight lifter's sweat, and was twice as thick.

More Versed says the doc. He sprayed the crap onto my tongue again and I could feel it numbing my throat as it went down. More Versed again. After this point, I don’t recall anything until I awoke in the recovery room.

I regained consciousness as a nurse was taking out my IV, which was now an empty bag. She said, “Looks like your IV got used up.” No shit, fuckface.

I felt like I had entered into a hazy dream zone of rainbows.

I demanded a pen and paper, and surprisingly, she procured these for me. I shooed her away and recorded my thoughts:

The nurse came back and asked if I wanted something to drink. I asked her what they had, and she said, “Cranberry juice, oran…”

“Cranberry juice!”

“Okay, would you like some cookies as well?”

Who am I to refuse cookies? “What kind of cookies you got?”

“Well, we got Lorna Doones, oatmeal rais…”

“What the hell is a Lorna Doone?!”

“It’s a type of cookie.”

“We’ll see about that. Bring it here!”

She returned with the cookies and juice. I immediately knew what a Lorna Doone cookie was when I saw the package.

It’s basically a generic, greasy, buttery cookie… but that’s beside the point. My qualm has to do with the nurse calling them “Lorna Doones” like everybody asks for them by name. Bitch, the only cookie with that distinction is an Oreo. When’s the last time you heard anybody say, “Wow, I love these goddamned Lorna Doones!” or “When you go to the store, pick me up some of them Lorna Doones” or “Cocksuck! Who ate my Lorna Doone?!”

The answer to all three is Joel’s grandma, a fictional old timer with a fictional grandson made up for the purposes of my story.

Shortly after eating a couple cookies, I put on my shirt and left under the supervision of my mom. I was way exhausted and drugged, and my mom told me that the doctor said that he didn’t see anything wrong with my stomach visually, but a couple biopsy results would be back in a week. Good news? I don’t know yet.