To Die For

My husband took the children to the car at the silent request of the other diners.  I scarfed the remaining chili con queso. My stomach hurt quite a bit as I inhaled that fine Mexican feast, but I just couldn’t stop myself.

Turns out, that was the queso that broke the idiot’s intestines.

The following morning brought no relief. I dropped the boys off at my mother’s and went to the doctor. It was a check-up for a previous incident. I could barely stand up for the exam but did not mention the pain. I assumed it was gas, and I was too embarrassed to tell the doctor. I believed a nap and a good fart would clear it all up.

The nap did not help. No release of any gas came forth. I decided I had a real problem and drove to a ‘doc in the box’. When I arrived, I was hunched over and sweating. I approached the receptionist and tried not to sway. She explained that it would be best if I left a phone number so she could call me back in a couple of hours to return.

“That’s not going to work. I’m in too much pain. I probably shouldn’t be driving.”

Her glare told me she thought I was just trying to jump ahead in line. I stumbled to a chair in the waiting room. People came and went but none looked to be suffering. I hated them all.

A little over an hour later I was called back. The nurse asked personal questions about my recent bathroom habits. She had me lie down to see if the pain would ease. It did not. Finally a doctor came in and repeated the bathroom survey and physical examination of my abdomen. He then ordered a quick x-ray just to be sure.

There was more waiting and finally another appearance by the doctor. He said the x-rays were clear though there was one spot that looked suspicious.

“It could be a bowel obstruction or scar tissue from one, but that’s pretty rare. You’ve never had one of those have you?”

“Um, yeah, I have. I had one after the birth of my twins two years ago.”

Oh. That changed everything. He insisted I go to the hospital right away. I drove myself there while calling my mom to tell her she won the keep-my-kids-longer lottery. I was slumped over the steering wheel and praying for green lights.

When I arrived, I showed them my ER VIP card (yes, really) and was taken back immediately. My father arrived with a serious face. They gave me relief from the pain via an IV. There were more x-rays and more serious doctor faces. My husband arrived just in time to see me get a nasogastric tube shoved down my throat.

Then, around midnight, a surgeon cut out five inches of my intestine and my appendix for good measure.

I don’t blame the queso. I blame myself.

This post is part of the yeahwrite summer series.

read to be read at yeahwrite.me

Bad Apples

I refuse to eat brown apples. Or apples that have the potential to turn brown. Or with any indentations or imperfections of any kind.

AND he didn’t wash it or check for bruises. Dumb ass.

I am a Fruit Snob.

The good news is that this affliction does not seem to be genetic. Mostly. One twin will eat any apple you put before him, and the other needs only a few modifications (flappy skin parts cut off, brown edges removed). There was that weird time when they loved eating a whole apple with no help at all and then all of a sudden wanted cut-up apples with no skin. But, they got over that and are pretty good about either eating a whole apple or a cut-up one covered in skin.
It boggles my mind and very sensitive palate.

What’s even more strange is that they don’t smoother it with peanut butter or pair it with cheese to get through the whole thing. It’s like I’m raising aliens.

You should see how I butcher any strawberries I give them. If they had their way, I’d just wash them and hand them over without even checking for mushy places! Or, dear Lord, making sure it was the right shade of red. Thankfully, I am the master of the fruit and am able to quickly ‘pretty up’ the strawberries before consumption. I’m kind of a fruit beautification bad-ass.

I love you perfect strawberry.

My son Jack loves blueberries in his morning cereal. I have to stop my gag reflex when I watch him eat that mess. I cannot stand the thought of the texture of them, let alone eat them raw. I like my blueberries in a nice, crumble-topped muffin, just as God intended. I have no idea how both boys came to love fresh blackberries either. It was not something they learned from me. Sure, I buy them, but I don’t partake. I just watch and shake my head.

I’ve given up on my boys. This is just one character flaw I can’t fight. So go ahead, give them an orange slice with slimy, stringy things hanging off it. They’ll eat it up.  I’ll just be over here eating my ‘orange’ Fruit Roll-up and drinking a grape soda trying not to watch.

Don’t care if this lime is not perfect. I can’t be uptight all the time.

Bad Apples

I refuse to eat brown apples. Or apples that have the potential to turn brown. Or with any indentations or imperfections of any kind.

AND he didn’t wash it or check for bruises. Dumb ass.

I am a Fruit Snob.

The good news is that this affliction does not seem to be genetic. Mostly. One twin will eat any apple you put before him, and the other needs only a few modifications (flappy skin parts cut off, brown edges removed). There was that weird time when they loved eating a whole apple with no help at all and then all of a sudden wanted cut-up apples with no skin. But, they got over that and are pretty good about either eating a whole apple or a cut-up one covered in skin.
It boggles my mind and very sensitive palate.

What’s even more strange is that they don’t smoother it with peanut butter or pair it with cheese to get through the whole thing. It’s like I’m raising aliens.

You should see how I butcher any strawberries I give them. If they had their way, I’d just wash them and hand them over without even checking for mushy places! Or, dear Lord, making sure it was the right shade of red. Thankfully, I am the master of the fruit and am able to quickly ‘pretty up’ the strawberries before consumption. I’m kind of a fruit beautification bad-ass.

I love you perfect strawberry.

My son Jack loves blueberries in his morning cereal. I have to stop my gag reflex when I watch him eat that mess. I cannot stand the thought of the texture of them, let alone eat them raw. I like my blueberries in a nice, crumble-topped muffin, just as God intended. I have no idea how both boys came to love fresh blackberries either. It was not something they learned from me. Sure, I buy them, but I don’t partake. I just watch and shake my head.

I’ve given up on my boys. This is just one character flaw I can’t fight. So go ahead, give them an orange slice with slimy, stringy things hanging off it. They’ll eat it up.  I’ll just be over here eating my ‘orange’ Fruit Roll-up and drinking a grape soda trying not to watch.

Don’t care if this lime is not perfect. I can’t be uptight all the time.