So that's what it's like to die...
Fifteen minutes ago, I arrived home after 36+ hours of intensive treatment at the hospital which prevented my death.
Before I elaborate on that, let me tell you about the Wednesday from hell.
Act I - Rubber and the Devil Inside
It started when I arrived in the parking lot Tuesday evening to find that my tire was flat. I rolled the car forward to get a better angle on the tire (as an overly large SUV was hindering my ability to work with the lugnuts). The tire's rim-wall was badly damaged, making a patch job impossible. I got out the tire-iron and started heaving against it to loosen the nuts... but they wouldn't budge. I tried standing and jumping on the iron, but to no avail. After fuming for a few minutes, it dawned on me that given my odd body-mass to muscle ratio, I may have better luck pulling the iron up. I flipped it around on the nut and gave a mighty heave which resulted in a resounding crack, and the nut coming free. After repeating this Atlas-type feat on each of the other 3 bolts, I went to take the tire off, only to find that it was completely rusted to the axle-thingamabobber. I pulled and pushed on the tire in vain, then gave it the evil eye and proceeded to give it the beating of its life. Frustrated, I called AAA. They dispatched a mechanic, who had no little difficulty locating me. He took a look at the tire, then started kicking it... just like I had... he also met with the same success that I had, or lack thereof. He went back to his truck for the heavy artillery. He used a large jack to repeatedly lift and drop my vehicle til the tire was free. After replacing it with the spare, I set forth for Sam's club, to buy some new tires.
Act II - The Wait
The title says it all. It took nearly an hour to finally submit my vehicle for re-rubbering. I had to wait two hours to come back for my vehicle, so I decided to go get some dinner (as the suction in my belly was bordering on the creation of a cataclysimic implossion that would have resulted in several civilian casualties). I ran from Sam's Club all the way up to Jefferson, then down to Top's Plaza to cross the road, then back to the Boston Market. I stuffed myself with meatloaf, spinach souffle, cinnamon apples, and cornbread. I started to jog back when I realized that running on a full-stomach isn't a great idea. Though it took only 15 minutes to run to the resaurant, the walk back took nearly an hour. Luckily for me, I wound up arriving just in time to watch them put the last new tire on. I picked up my keys, headed home, watched Superman Returns with the Herrings, then went to bed.
Act III - That's Just Not Right
12:30 in the morning, I jolted out of bed feeling quite noxious. I ran to the bathroom and vomitted everything I had eaten for dinner, lunch, breakfast, and who knows how many snacktimes. My vomit was so viscous that I nearly choked, going so far as to watch my lips turn the most peculiar shade of blue. I tried to call my wife, pounding on the floor, screaming between gushers, but she slept like the dead. Fearing another onset, I woke Cheryl up and explained what had just happened, asking her to join me should I go streaking off again. 1:10, again I wake up and vomit even more (maybe I really do have a hollow leg... how else could I store that much food), this time, explosive diahrea follows. I sip some water an go back to bed, shaking like a leaf and pale as a ghost. 1:50, again, another queasy streak followed by such forceful contractions that the water I had just sipped came out not only through my mouth, but through my nose and eyes as well. I don't know if you've ever puked hard enough to have it come out your eyes, but if you haven't, let it suffice to say that it BURNS. I repeated this routine of 30 minutes sleep, vomitting then diahrea all night til I got to the point of feeling that things were really out of control. I could barely stand, and seeing stars was becoming common.
Act IV - Emergency Room
6am, Cheryl rushed me to the ER after speaking to the Anthem nurse who told us in no uncertain terms that I required immediate professional attention. I went in to register and passed out on the registration desk in the ER. When I woke up, I was admitted and being moved in a wheelchair down the hall. It still took nearly an hour for a doctor to arrive, and at that point, the severe stabbing pain in my abdomen led to thoughts of giving birth in a sci-fi series like "Alien". They immediately put my on an IV solution and some nausea fluid (they wanted to put me on morphine, but I hate painkillers). My color started to return a little, so they let my use the bathroom to change into an apron (as my clothes were completely soiled due to my complete loss of bowel control). I'm not joking when I say that wallowing in your own SH** stinks.
Act V - Maybe he's worse off then we thought...
Come 9am, I really had to use the bathroom again. Cheryl started to assist me off the bed, when I awoke in a cess-pool of my own vomit and diahrea, being pulled off the floor by several nurses and a concerned doctor. According to the accounts of the bystanders, I had made it off the bed and most of the way down the hall before falling hard on the floor, unconscious with my bowls pouring out all around. After that I received much more attentive, individual care. By 4, I was off to observation.
ACT VI - BORING
I stayed in observation from 4pm til noon the next day. During that time, my joints complained loudly about the lack of movement, my mind became dull from the monotony broken only by the annoying, high pitched beeps of the hospital machinery, and the dull ache of the large needle in my arm became a searing pain that plagued my every movement.
So here I am, sitting at home sipping Ramen soup, fresh tires on my car, well rested, and ready for more fun tomorrow. All in all, though the experience was horrific, it feels like a large field trip during which I got to see things I'd never seen before and experience things I had never experienced. The moral of the story - "Don't eat the Boston Market meatloaf. It could kill you. It almost killed me."
Before I elaborate on that, let me tell you about the Wednesday from hell.
Act I - Rubber and the Devil Inside
It started when I arrived in the parking lot Tuesday evening to find that my tire was flat. I rolled the car forward to get a better angle on the tire (as an overly large SUV was hindering my ability to work with the lugnuts). The tire's rim-wall was badly damaged, making a patch job impossible. I got out the tire-iron and started heaving against it to loosen the nuts... but they wouldn't budge. I tried standing and jumping on the iron, but to no avail. After fuming for a few minutes, it dawned on me that given my odd body-mass to muscle ratio, I may have better luck pulling the iron up. I flipped it around on the nut and gave a mighty heave which resulted in a resounding crack, and the nut coming free. After repeating this Atlas-type feat on each of the other 3 bolts, I went to take the tire off, only to find that it was completely rusted to the axle-thingamabobber. I pulled and pushed on the tire in vain, then gave it the evil eye and proceeded to give it the beating of its life. Frustrated, I called AAA. They dispatched a mechanic, who had no little difficulty locating me. He took a look at the tire, then started kicking it... just like I had... he also met with the same success that I had, or lack thereof. He went back to his truck for the heavy artillery. He used a large jack to repeatedly lift and drop my vehicle til the tire was free. After replacing it with the spare, I set forth for Sam's club, to buy some new tires.
Act II - The Wait
The title says it all. It took nearly an hour to finally submit my vehicle for re-rubbering. I had to wait two hours to come back for my vehicle, so I decided to go get some dinner (as the suction in my belly was bordering on the creation of a cataclysimic implossion that would have resulted in several civilian casualties). I ran from Sam's Club all the way up to Jefferson, then down to Top's Plaza to cross the road, then back to the Boston Market. I stuffed myself with meatloaf, spinach souffle, cinnamon apples, and cornbread. I started to jog back when I realized that running on a full-stomach isn't a great idea. Though it took only 15 minutes to run to the resaurant, the walk back took nearly an hour. Luckily for me, I wound up arriving just in time to watch them put the last new tire on. I picked up my keys, headed home, watched Superman Returns with the Herrings, then went to bed.
Act III - That's Just Not Right
12:30 in the morning, I jolted out of bed feeling quite noxious. I ran to the bathroom and vomitted everything I had eaten for dinner, lunch, breakfast, and who knows how many snacktimes. My vomit was so viscous that I nearly choked, going so far as to watch my lips turn the most peculiar shade of blue. I tried to call my wife, pounding on the floor, screaming between gushers, but she slept like the dead. Fearing another onset, I woke Cheryl up and explained what had just happened, asking her to join me should I go streaking off again. 1:10, again I wake up and vomit even more (maybe I really do have a hollow leg... how else could I store that much food), this time, explosive diahrea follows. I sip some water an go back to bed, shaking like a leaf and pale as a ghost. 1:50, again, another queasy streak followed by such forceful contractions that the water I had just sipped came out not only through my mouth, but through my nose and eyes as well. I don't know if you've ever puked hard enough to have it come out your eyes, but if you haven't, let it suffice to say that it BURNS. I repeated this routine of 30 minutes sleep, vomitting then diahrea all night til I got to the point of feeling that things were really out of control. I could barely stand, and seeing stars was becoming common.
Act IV - Emergency Room
6am, Cheryl rushed me to the ER after speaking to the Anthem nurse who told us in no uncertain terms that I required immediate professional attention. I went in to register and passed out on the registration desk in the ER. When I woke up, I was admitted and being moved in a wheelchair down the hall. It still took nearly an hour for a doctor to arrive, and at that point, the severe stabbing pain in my abdomen led to thoughts of giving birth in a sci-fi series like "Alien". They immediately put my on an IV solution and some nausea fluid (they wanted to put me on morphine, but I hate painkillers). My color started to return a little, so they let my use the bathroom to change into an apron (as my clothes were completely soiled due to my complete loss of bowel control). I'm not joking when I say that wallowing in your own SH** stinks.
Act V - Maybe he's worse off then we thought...
Come 9am, I really had to use the bathroom again. Cheryl started to assist me off the bed, when I awoke in a cess-pool of my own vomit and diahrea, being pulled off the floor by several nurses and a concerned doctor. According to the accounts of the bystanders, I had made it off the bed and most of the way down the hall before falling hard on the floor, unconscious with my bowls pouring out all around. After that I received much more attentive, individual care. By 4, I was off to observation.
ACT VI - BORING
I stayed in observation from 4pm til noon the next day. During that time, my joints complained loudly about the lack of movement, my mind became dull from the monotony broken only by the annoying, high pitched beeps of the hospital machinery, and the dull ache of the large needle in my arm became a searing pain that plagued my every movement.
So here I am, sitting at home sipping Ramen soup, fresh tires on my car, well rested, and ready for more fun tomorrow. All in all, though the experience was horrific, it feels like a large field trip during which I got to see things I'd never seen before and experience things I had never experienced. The moral of the story - "Don't eat the Boston Market meatloaf. It could kill you. It almost killed me."