You Are Now the Proud Owner of…Diverticulitis
Ladies and gentle persons, I have an announcement to make: I am now the proud owner of diverticulitis. Well, perhaps ‘proud’ is too strong a word. Perhaps what I really mean is that I never asked to be bestowed such a gift and I will gladly give it back if someone will just point me to the original giver. Heck, I’ll even donate it to the starving kids in wherever. Just take it! Please!
Why am I so desperate to be rid of my diverticulitis? If you have to ask, you’ve never experienced it yourself. To be blunt, I’m just not that into pain. I’m not into feeling like my colon needs a visit from the the Ty-D-Bol Man. Spending an afternoon in the ER while my small intestine screams at my brain, “I’m gonna make you wish you were never born, boy” is not my idea of the gift that keeps on giving.
But it will, or so I’m told. I hear say that once you’ve had diverticulitis just once, it becomes like that kid in high school who, for some reason unknown to anyone with any social skills, decided you were his best friend. It will follow you wherever you go. It will be your constant companion, always lurking around the corner and asking if it should make sandwiches.
How It All Started
My diverticulitis adventure began on a Saturday morning. I awoke to the normal sound of the alarm clock laughing at me while yapping something about me having to get my sorry butt out of bed while it got to spend all day lying around and doing nothing. By the way, ‘Lying Around and Doing Nothing’ would be a great theme for the Kamala Harris Vice-Presidential Little Free Library in beautiful, downtown Sutter Creek, CA.
At any rate, I felt a mild discomfort for the first few hours that morning, No big deal. After all, I am in my late 30s – 29 years late to be precise – so an occasional bout of gastrointestinal distress accompanied by a slight bit of irregularity is to be expected.
What is not to be expected is feeling like one has a lead weight in one’s stomach after taking a hit from a bottle of energy drink. I took a couple of hits that afternoon and knew something was up. My suspicions proved Jedi-like when I awoke Sunday morning with more gastrointestinal distress – but a noticeable lack of irregularity.
It will Pass…Maybe
Like the fool that I am, I decided to follow the old adage that ‘this, too, will pass’. And if it doesn’t, one shot of Ducolax will force the issue. So what did I do? I continued to shove food down my gullet as I normally would on any given Sunday, assuming that what felt like a plug in my colon would eventually burst like a huge pimple and all would be well. It didn’t, and it wasn’t.
By Monday morning I was in no mood to watch the perky weather lady tell me the forecast for towns I had never been to or ever hoped to visit one day. I was in pain. You think plucking a nose hair hurts, try having your colon tied up in a knot so tight David Copperfield couldn’t get it undone.
By 1:00 in the afternoon, I was flat on my back in the ER. My life was flashing before my eyes while persons dressed like medical personnel poked, prodded, and asked so many questions I thought we were on some sort of freakish game show. Nearly five hours later, I received the blessed news: I was ready to go home with my new bundle of joy.
I Need Some Flavor
For the last week I have been nursing my tender colon back to health…with a bland diet. When I say bland, I mean the food I’ve been eating makes sauerbraten and mashed potatoes sound like an exquisite combination of flavors and aromas that scintillate even the most discriminating palates.
Here’s all I know: I WANT SOME FLAVOR! Chicken broth be gone. White bread toast, take a hike. And Jello, if you ever darken my doorstep again, I promise you I will run away like a third-grader who just had the misfortune of getting too close to Joe Biden’s teeth.
They say it will be weeks before I’m back to normal again. But forget ever eating normally again. Say goodbye to good food. My life now is all about bran flakes, rice cakes, and other things masquerading as food despite being little more than hay. But at least I can tolerate a little butter on it.
