Puzzle and Recovery

Sunday, May. 27, 2007 - 12:08 a.m.

Yesterday, meaning Saturday, was a day of recovery.

I almost went to the hospital on Saturday morning.

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It began with an overconsumption of that homemade peanut brittle.

The problem was that the operative word, peanuts, do not get along with my digestive system unless they are in the form of peanut butter or peanut oil.

Apparently no other incarnation of peanuts, especially if they are fresh and raw and extremely hard, is acceptable to my innards.

I overdosed badly on the brittle.

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Dinner on Friday night was lovely. I ate at around nine pm. John and I watched a Veber comedy called Les Chevres, starring Pierre Richard and Gerard Depardieu.

As my regular readers know, I had a disease which cost me my large intestine, and I wear an ostomy pouch. Because of the abbreviated nature of my digestive system since my surgery in 1983, I should have seen dinner reappear around one in the morning on Saturday. Food goes in and comes back out within the space of about four hours. Which sounds kind of fast, but I get enough nutrition and it's been this way for twenty-four years now, so it's something I'm used to.

But this time was very different.

As has been my habit now for about the last three and a half years, I take a telephone call from Old Buddy Dave as he's driving home from the bar on Friday nights (and on the Saturday nights that he works there). Originally this was to aid him in staying awake, but for the last six months, it's just been purely out of habit.

I took the phone call this last Friday night (early Saturday morning) and I mentioned to him that things weren't quite right.

We finished speaking when he got home, chatted again briefly when he logged on to check his mail at around 2:45 this morning, and made our final good nights at around three o'clock Saturday morning.

I headed to bed, where my sleep-warm husband was waiting for me to snuggle up against, and I laid there unsuccessfully trying to get some sleep.

My stomach hurt, and nothing was draining into my pouch. A little fluid, but that was it. I was backed up, and dangerously so.

At about twenty minutes after three in the morning, I bolted for the bathroom and vomited up the dinner that was still lodged in my stomach. Not much had passed on through to my gut due to the peanut traffic jam. I drank a little water, and then took a dose of Pepto Bismol, which I thought might be coming back up, but at least now the acid was semi-neutralized if that happened, so my teeth enamel were a little more protected.

I vomited again at four thirty in the morning. I can't stand vomiting, but if I can barf and get it over with instead of being sick or hung over for four days, I'll barf. But it's still humiliating to stick your head in the bowl and complete the call to Ralph on the Big White Telephone.

At six thirty, I vomited again. It was just your basic empty stomach barf, consisting of a litle bit of acid and a whole bunch of spit, and this didn't worry me, because there was no sign of blood or bile, both of which meant a trip to the hospital to check for ulcers or perforations. However, I was getting a little worried about my chemical imbalances; I've always had a problem getting enough potassium, and despite my size, loss of fluids of this magnitude wasn't something I was certain my body could handle.

I took a second dose of Pepto Bismol, along with a small drink of water, for the same reasons as before.

If this problem hadn't cleared up by nine in the morning, I was going to ask John to get dressed and take me to the emergency room for an IV with saline and a little potassium / electrolyte supplement.

At eight thirty, I heaved again. But this time, as I stood back up from my kneeling -- my ostomy pouch filled up. I sat down on the toilet in the traditional way, emptied my pouch, and stood up. It filled again.

In the space of fifteen minutes, it filled to near bursting, and I emptied it -- three times.

Whew.

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I was feeling good enough Saturday to make a sizeable breakfast for John and me, and I kept it down. Dave had been informed of my travails and kept sending me pings to make sure I was okay.

As of now, early Sunday morning -- the crisis has passed.

However, there are now new house rules.

I am strictly forbidden to make peanut brittle again. Ever.

Maybe there might be an exception if John wants some to take to his office. Otherwise, it's off of my list.

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So that's why I haven't posted anything news-related.

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My brother posted a puzzle over on MySpace, which I am reposting here.

Rosa's father has five daughters.

Consuela
Consuele
Consueli
Consuelo
_ _ _ _ _ _?

What is the name of the fifth daughter?

Post your guesses in the comments section.

---

Okay, that's it.

Oh, one more thing. Twelve days ago, John got an invitation to be a guest at a science fiction convention over the Memorial Day weekend. Apparently the people who sent it actually are delusional enough to think we don't have real lives, and can make a change of plans at the drop of a hat.

When you get invited to an event, such as a wedding, or a graduation ceremony or whatever, you never send an invitation to this event two weeks out.

Even if the convention is a known event and even if John is a known entity within that convention -- this was still very poorly executed, and it has served to show that the senior staff emeritus of this convention is considered as nothing more than an afterthought, as the invitation was sent so late as to be nothing more than a symbolic gesture as opposed to a practical and valid means to secure John's input or presence at this event.

Oh well. Maybe they'll get their shit together sooner next year.

Wow. I actually kept a straight face as I wrote that!...

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Anyway, there you go. Have a good Sunday!

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