Forewarning: I Lost Count At How Many Times I Said "Puke" In This Post.

So I thought going gluten free fixed all my stomach woes. Apparently not. Apparently, I just have bad genes. Maybe some food poisoning. Possibly some bacteria I contracted walking around Mexico. Maybe an Ibuprofen induced ulcer. Probably some underlying pysch issues somatatized into projectile vomit. And just maybe, according to the nurses in the ER, a drug seeking problem. Quite possibly a mixture of all of the above.

Let me tell you a story.

Growing up I used to get super sick on occasion. SUPER sick. We're talking stomach wrenching, vomiting, explosive everything, most-painful-experience-of-my-life sick. Nobody could figure it out, but once or twice a year, and in a bad year - three or four times, I'd end up in the ER. My mom had the same problem. Mia is exhibiting signs of something similar. But no one can explain it. When I went off gluten, I thought everything was OK. I have had similar, albeit, milder episodes. Until now.

And I was at work. In the middle of the night, no less.

At work, starting to feel it coming on. Praying, "Please. PLEASE. Don't let me have to throw up IN A PUBLIC TOILET." No such luck. And after I was done puking, I realized what I had done, and just the thought made me puke. Again. Luckily, I got to come home. But I didn't make it out to my car before I had to throw up. In ANOTHER PUBLIC TOILET. And after my 15 minute car ride home, I barely made it to my own toilet. After a few agonizing hours, alternating puking with pressing my face against the cold bathroom floor, I was able to get Tim awake.

That conversation went something like:

"Get UP, damn it! I need to go to the ER."
"Now?"
"YES. NOW!"
"What are we supposed to do with the kids? It's 4AM."
"Leave them. I'm going to die."

Finish that conversation off with yet another vomiting episode.

After a call to the step-mom-in-law, we set the burglar alarm, and yes - we left our children ages 3 and 4, asleep in their beds, while Tim dumped me off on the steps of the ER. Not my finest parenting moment, I will admit.

But before I even got to the ER front desk, I had to make a bee-line for the bathroom. To hurl. IN ANOTHER PUBLIC TOILET. After which a kind nurse came and picked me off the floor, put me into a wheel chair, and took me back to a room in the ER. Only it didn't have a toilet either.

So no less than 1 minute after stripping down and putting on a gown, I had to run down the hallway, into yet ANOTHER PUBLIC BATHROOM to regurgitate 3 weeks worth of food. And my liver. Possibly a kidney. Realizing my worst fear - having to lean my head into a public john - had come to pass. Not once. But 4 times in a matter of hours. And now instead of laying on MY bathroom floor, I was laying on the floor of a public bathroom. Half naked. Covered in sweat and throw-up. If I didn't have a terrible, flesh eating, communicable disease before I came to the ER, I most certainly did now.

In between bathroom trips, I finally got an IV, and in between more bathroom trips I got some meds for nausea. A few doses, actually. And then they gave me Fentanyl. I'm not the best person on pain meds. I tend to stick with Ibprofen. I've had Percocet once. Hate it. I've had Lortab twice. Not a fan. Morphine - I'm OK with. Fentanyl? First time = total psych breakdown.

Tim, who had come back to the ER after seeing that our children were *properly* cared for, and my mom (who was on the phone), wanted them to do a CT scan - check for a ruptured appendix, or a small alien who may have climbed in and was disemboweling me from the inside out. The MD didn't want to do that. And while they were "discussing" it, well - I just started yelling. And crying.

And that was sight to behold. Pretty sure I looked like a drug addict. If the ER staff had suspicions before, they had just been confirmed. After being up all night, throwing up so hard stomach contents were coming out of my eyeballs, sweating profusely from pain - well, I'll admit, my mascara smeared a little. And I probably smelled bad. And the dried, crusty vomit in my hair probably didn't help either. That, and the Fentanyl induced psychotic break, may have scared my medical team just a little. That's why I'm most likely on the "Drug Seeking Alert" list at LDS hospital's ER.


Semi-happy ending. I got discharged home after a CT scan that revealed no alien, just a super inflammed intestinal tract. A few antibiotics and some anti-emetics, and (most importantly) a letter excusing me from jury duty, I was good as new. After 4 days of nothing but Gatorade and applesauce.

No one still knows what's wrong with me. Quite possibly they never will. But I did learn one thing. I don't do well on Fentanyl. Next time I'm going to straight up ask for morphine like a normal drug addict.