Honestly, I felt as if we'd rolled the car a half-dozen times. My body was beat up--I hurt all over. When we arrived home, safely, from east of the Mississippi, I was sick in ways I haven't been for years. I mean, I actually suffered a stroke in May, got an expensive helicopter ride and two whole days in a Sioux Falls hospital, but for most of that time I was just fine, really, just a little disconcerted. I was sort of in trouble, but I wasn't sick. In fact, oddly enough, I was oddly euphoric. Seriously.
I haven't been flea-bittin' sick--I mean belly-achin', cauldron-stomached, fever-ridden, upchuckin' sick--for I don't know how long. I'd eaten an ordinary breakfast in Chicago--a wonderful Belgian waffle--downed a towering glass of orange juice and another of milk, finished off my wife's potatoes, and had a cup of coffee. Maybe, all tolled, too much.
Then I strapped myself in the Buick and basically didn't move for eight hours. By the time we got home, I was brewing something in me that required Hazmat handling.
I swear, from the moment we headed west I felt bovine-like, as if I'd madly feasted on sweet alfalfa, my belly ballooning like something from Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade; I told my wife to put a knife in my stomach, and she only laughed. When we got home, I laid myself down, a position that offered blessed little relief.
My head hurt, my shoulders ached, my legs felt kicked around for what seemed forever. A few thunderous events better left unsaid helped out a bit, but not until late afternoon the next day did I have any kind of appetite at all--enough, at least for a single piece of toast.
Mid-horror, I went to Web MD because I was getting altogether too many rotten doses of acid re-flux, and there I learned that one of the major causes of such symptoms is being--horrors!--overweight. Sheesh. Just what I wanted to know a day before Thanksgiving.
I admit it. I've been blessed. I don't even remember the last time I felt so beat up. And even though this early morning as I sit here staring into the screen, my daily apple half-gnawed beside me and my stomach still questioning the idea of admitting anything at all, I'm happy and thankful to say I'm over it. Whatever it was. Sort of.
I wouldn't wish it on anyone's worst enemy, but the truth is, amidst all that suffering, I actually shed five pounds.
Big deal. Tomorrow's Turkey Day. More massive Macy's ballooning.
Woe and woe.