SH*T HAPPENS

The expression makes for a great bumpersticker (if you're into that sort of quasi-decorative expression), but it's no way to live. Granted, we are mammals with alimentary canals and all, and we've gotta do the daily doo; but I'm talking about diarrhea here. Yes, I said it. "Diarrhea." And vomit; I said that, too. It's no joking matter; and, let me tell you, actually having them is nothing to sniff at.

After spending Thanksgiving with my upstair's neighbor in the hood, literally in the hood (Century Boulevard, for you Angelinos) I returned to work with a full belly. (And a new gratitude for the simple things, like not having to dodge bullets on the way to my car and not having been a foster child.) That night, I slept soundly in my lovely new bed; that is, until I awoke at 3am. At first I thought it was because of the helicopter lights blazing outside my bedroom window - another bizarre reality of living in Los Angeles. I thought to myself, "Hmmm, a manhunt. I hope it's nothing serious," and rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. But I quickly realized that I was nauseous. I bolted out of bed and had just enough time to sprint into the bathroom. You know what happened next. It was a two-way flood of disgust, if you can follow the imagery. I felt like Regan from The Exorcist (or how actress Linda Blair felt when she realized that her career was over, poblecita). Actually, at one point, I'm sure I even looked like her, too - pea soup and all. I didn't know things like that could come out of a human body. And I'm a nurse!


At first I thought I had food poisoining and I vowed to go on a rampage like Dirty Harry or Rambo, exacting my revenge from the dirty non-handwashers. (A dirty mind is great. Really, it's a terrible thing to waste; but dirty hands are absolutely unforgivable.) Alas, the suspected poor hygiene of my holiday hosts was not to blame, though; the real culprit appears to have been a severe stomach flu, a particluarly virulent strain that has been reaking intestinal havoc on the West Coast for a few weeks now. It had me, as they say, sick as a dog.

Confession: I didn't think I would ever find myself writing about bodily functions. It's not the sort of thing one dreams of doing when one grows up; and they don't exactly hand out Pulitzers for that sort of thing. But, nobody likes to be sick, and everybody certainly likes bitching about it when they are; so, who am I to buck tradition? And was I ever sick. Just like my college days, I was praying to the porcelain god. Really, I pleaded for mercy, I begged for relief and I made totally unrealistic promises that I had no intention of keeping, like, "I'll be nice to stupid people," and, "I'll vote Repubican...Just make it go away...Take me to the safe place! Take me to the safe place!!!...Mommy?" Oh, sorry; I was caught in a flashback there...

Seriously, I felt like one of the hapless victims from the Alien franchise (which, by the way, would have done very well to have stopped at being a trilogy) and I begged for death: "Kill Me." At that point, I began to call friends all across the country, one by one, to say my final, sad farewells. They, of course, all thought I was crazy. And maybe I was just a little psychotic, from the dehydration and all. But, really, I felt so bad that I honestly thought I was going to die. I began to make out my will and then I swear I even saw The Light. It took a minute until I realized that it was just the helicopter passing over again and not the express train to heaven. Whew. Then, I slept for two days and woke to find I had lost another 5 pounds (on top of the other 5 I had legitimately worked off). Not bad. I thought, "Maybe I could be anorexic, afterall." But I love to eat too much to be anorexic; and I think we all know how I feel about throwing up now, so bulemia is obviously way out. Anyway, the hunger set in right away so I headed straight for the kitchen. And now, all is well, both in the streets of L.A. and in the miles of my intestines.