About ten years ago, I took some customers to dinner at a popular local restaurant. I had the stacked chicken enchiladas and (for some strange reason) blueberry cheesecake for dessert*. Four hours later, the constant rumbling in my tummy forced me to pull into a disgusting gas station, in which bathroom I disgorged a good portion of that meal.
The rumbling and heaving continued into the night, long past the moment when I had successfully emptied my stomach. Past the bile, even. Past all hope of seeing sunshine in the morning. The universe was built of porcelain, and I was its only inhabitant upon which it was visiting its eternal anger.
Some time shortly thereafter, I was admitted to the emergency room, where the doctor carried on a colorful discussion with Handsome about my trials and tribulations.
Handsome is concerned. “She’s been throwing up blood.”
Doctor frowns and continues pressing on my abdomen. Roughly. I heave, vomit.
“Here, let me show you.” Funny husband, that one.
This is all to say that the meal I endured on Monday in no way measured up to that previous episode of food poisoning. But it was close.
*I haven’t been able to enjoy blueberries since.