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Three Pound Stomach Bug and Dr House

The other day someone mentioned the name of a little French restaurant on Southside, and am instantly flashed to me barfing lobster parfaite onto our driveway after dinner there two Februarys ago. It wasn't the food that made me sick (or the wine); it was a stomach disease my daughter brought home at school. And it happened to hit in the same way we arrived home that night.

Recalling the horror of it all made me ponder how long it had been since I'd hosted a stomach bug. Two years exactly. "Huh, " I believed. "I wonder if I actually can live a good long life without ever having one again? I gamble I can do it. "


That very night after my husband clicked off the special post-Super Dish episode of House, bathmate before and after We had trouble falling sleeping. Something just wasn't right. I tossed around like flipper in search of a magical portal to a peaceful, sleepy place. Images of Dr . Homes diagnosis and those graphic shots they show of what's happening inside the body flickered as We squirmed, and my thoughts swelled with drama. I felt hot and sick.

Might be I had the same thing the woman House dealt with had. I don't bear in mind what it was called, but House was the only one who could save her. Where would I actually find a real-life Dr . House to fix me personally? I am hoping he'd be better ones in my experience than the TV Dr. House. "I don't feel good! " I actually blurted out loud. "I'm sorry, Honey. Please be still, " whispered my husband.

Three hours later, I was yanked from my covers and pulled into the bathroom by an invisible beast. Just what happened from then on is merely way too revolting to share. But I will say there was two sides to the storyline, if you catch my drift. It was bad. Real bad.

When round-one was over-I knew there would be more-I gripped the counter for balance and squinted to the mirror at my lifeless appearance. My skin was the color and texture of iceberg lettuce. I easily wiped away my sweat mustache, splashed water on my face and turned to head back to mattress. As I reached up a cold clam-hand to change out the light, We spotted the digital scales on the floor underneath the towel rack. I actually couldn't stop myself, We had to do it. I could barely stand, but I had to. One point five pounds lighter than today. So cool, We weakly glowed as I actually harmoniously questioned my state of mind and cringed at my vanity. Dr. House would not be amused.

I actually slept for two more hours prior to the next vomit/ria fest, and then again for an hour, until I hit the dreaded every-thirty-minutes indicate. That's when I halted trying to swing a deal with God and started begging for a cold and cozy serious. At some point, We managed to jerk down a towel for a blanket before slipping subconscious.

Almost violently, I burst open into a dream where I was making out with Dr. House. This individual had coffee breath and tense lips. He seemed frustrated and never at all into it. But, in some way, I totally was. Just like he managed to press me off him with his cane, and I actually was suggesting we bookbag to Prague, my own eyes thrown open.

I was soaked in sweat and drooling onto the shag bathmat. About twenty minutes later, I had labored my way to my ft and peeled the bathmat from my figure. Then, with way more effort than should be medically permitted in my state, We stepped on the weighing scales, for the fourth or fifth time. I meticulously resisted the primal instinct to brace myself. Holding on to something would affect the scales' reading.

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