Off to See the Doc

Last night, I didn't feel very well. I suppose that's a bit of an understatement, because in point of fact, I felt more like 10 pounds of crap stuffed into a 1 pound bag. I wouldn't say I was sick; I just didn't feel well (a little stomach cramping followed by those joyful waves of nausea).

At the time, I didn't mention anything to my wife because, as she pointed out the last time I bellyached about it (if you'll forgive the pun), "It seems like you feel bad every night." Now that I think about it, I have felt icky more frequently around bedtime lately, but I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that it's most likely a symptom of the aging processes. Indigestion does happen, after all.

What made last night different was that I threw up. Well, that's not entirely true, either. I've been known to hoark poetically into the bowl from time to time, but usually in consequence of a touchy stomach combined with coughing. This is especially the case in the morning before my gastrointestinal system has had a chance to process the morning coffee.

So I threw up. It happens. On the first heave, I say goodbye to the slice of French bread I had used to escort the chicken we had for dinner on to my fork. "Bon voyage, Frenchy, and say hello to my old goldfish if you run into him down there." With the next heave, the chicken follows, along with a several canned peas (that, incidentally, I didn't want to eat in the first damned place). By the third or fourth heave, my head is bobbing like a teenager at a Metallica concert, and the contents of my stomach have been fully disgorged, so now I'm dry heaving.

The storm seems to pass, and I start the process of mopping up the toilet bowl (I have pretty decent aim, but this stuff splashed) when another heave hits me. This time, I feel the mystery substance roiling up my throat and I'm surprised because it's not scratchy but it feels sort of hot.

When it hits the bowl, I'm startled by what I see. Bobbing up and down is a little ball a bit smaller than an egg, comprised of mostly angry crimson blood and what appears to be saliva. All I could think about was Gene Simmons, and how he used to be able to vomit blood at will while performing for KISS.

About that time, my wife realizes that I've quit yelling for my buddy Ralph, so she asks me that wonderful, obligatory question: "Are you okay?". How do you answer that question? I mean really? What do I say? "Not bad for a human Pez dispenser, dear! Oh, and the flavor today looks like cherry!"

Normally, I would assure her that I'm fine. This time, I'm not sure what to say because I have this little blood ball still bobbing up and down in the toilet mocking me, daring me to proclaim that I'm fine, and that in fact, it's good to let your insides out to roam around once in a while.

I sit there, as slack-jawed as the village idiot, staring at my little red friend until my wife arrives. Then, she asks me again if I'm okay. Always one to articulate my thoughts concisely in any given situation, I have the perfect answer: I point an accusing finger at toilet, and say "I dunno."

Suffice to say, my wife was less than thrilled, and a minor debate over what to do ensued. She wanted me to go to the doctor, whereas I take more of a wait-and-see approach. Experience tells me that more often than not, your body will heal itself (or you'll die of whatever ails you, and therefore not be concerned with the fact that you didn't seek medical attention when you should have).

It's worth noting that I have this minor phobia about medical facilities. I don't like them at all. Period. They make me feel as trapped and out of control as a laboratory rat. I suspect this may be a throwback to my military days. In the Army, you really are trapped and out of control. Doctors are medical professionals, yes, but they are also officers, and they're not afraid to flex that rank.

I spoke with my mom this morning, and she talked to a friend who is a doctor. What the doctor told her merited me getting a call at work from mommy: "Seek medical attention immediately. It may be nothing, or you may be sitting there bleeding to death in front of your computer."

How's that for cheery news? So, I'm scheduled to go see Doc Johnson at 4:45 today (his name is actually Dr. Kelly, but I call him "Doc Johnson" -- maybe I'll tell him about that when I see him, but certainly after he treats me).

We'll see what old Doc Johnson has to say about my little red buddy in the bowl. My fear is that I'll end up being probed like a trailer trash redneck from Roswell, New Mexico, but maybe I'll get lucky. Most likely, he'll tell me to dry my tears, wipe my nose, and stop eating paste. In any event, I'll post my experience here.