I'm lying on the bed suffering (see Issue #2). The Boy is playing behind me.
I bolt over. The Boy looks like a deer caught in the headlights. P's night table and the walls are splattered with orange. It smells sour.
It takes me a second before I realize he has shot off a round of bear spray. I grab The Boy and dash downstairs. He's bawling, but luckily pointed the can away from himself.
I manage to get our bedroom windows open and, once the pepper dissipated, spend the next 40-minutes scrubbing the walls.
At least I forgot about my other problem for a while.Incident #2
Saturday night I get the runs. Immodium and Pepto Bismol don't seem to help. I sleep fitfully.
Sunday is no better, except now there's blood.
I decide it will get better on it's own. It doesn't.
At 5:30 pm I go to the hospital. Surprisingly I get admitted quickly.
An attractive resident attends to me. She pokes my stomach, listens to my chest, asks some questions and leaves. "Be right back."
My worst fear is realized when she returns with gloves and lube. "Are you serious? I've just got bad diarrhea."
"We want to be thorough."
"Are you flirting with me? Because I usually wait until at least the third date before a finger goes up my ass. Besides I'm married."
"Look. As much as you're not looking forward to receiving this. I'm not looking forward to performing it."
Three hours later they still don't know what caused my problem. One blood test, two x-rays, and a rectal exam and all they could tell me was, "Eat more fiber."
Yup, this is definitely not how I thought my Sunday was going to end up.