Roughly one week ago, two staff members from The Boston Jam came down with two cases of food poisoning that were so severe, it would make the flu in Sudan look mild. Two cases of food poisoning resulted in two very long nights for these writers. One of them being myself, and the other being Guar.
Guar and I both consider ourselves to be in good shape. We eat relatively healthy, we lift the ol’ weights here and there, and our jumping jack form is textbook. But if there’s one thing a young in shape man can’t do these days, is preventing a microscopic piece of bacteria emptying them out at both ends. It’s unavoidable.
So after a week of recovery and solid meals, I’ve decided to come clean and share my nightmarish night with you all. I’m not sure how Guar is holding up right now, and to be honest I don’t really care.
I feel like life is all about telling stories about certain experiences and events. And when you survive an experience and event like I did a week ago, you have to tell the world how you got through it. I feel like James Franco in “127 Hours“. I just battled all night (six hours) and came out on top. I promise I will leave the revolting details out of this, but this story must be told:
I’m out enjoying a drink at a random bar, making small talk with a friend of a friend of a friend. The conversation is filled with constant “so how do you know this guy?” type questions to fill the long awkward pauses. We both order two drinks a piece to add something to the discussion.
I get an immediate hot flash and can’t manage to get down one more sip of beer. The room starts to spin a bit as I tell myself to slow my drinking pace.
Dizziness increases, the room gets hotter, and the conversation get’s worse. I think about jetting home but I have to finish listening to how this friend of a friend of a friend used to be allergic to cotton swabs. As exhilarating as the conversation was, I check the exits to see if I have a clear path.
The coast is clear and I wrap up the conversation with, “I’m going to go take a cigarette break I’ll be right back.” I don’t smoke but used the excuse to dart out the back exit to get some air and start the trek back home.
I arrive at my apartment in a dizzy, sweaty, extremely nauseous state. I sit on the couch to watch re-runs of The Office to take my mind off of the hell that was about to ensue.
I briefly pass out on the couch and awake to my brother coming home with a lady friend. He walks over to me to introduce his coed and immediately comments on my physical state. His exact words were “So what drug did you take tonight?”. I got up and nudged him out of the way and gave a head nod to the random girl who came along with him.
I drag my lifeless body to my bed, expecting any second to see all of the drinks I had that night splattered on my comforter.
As I listen to my brother and his new friend talk about absolute nonsense, I receive a quick bolt of hell in my stomach. I bolt to the bathroom to make my first of many trips.
I exit the bathroom and the woman of the night laughs and yells, “So how much did you drink tonight?”. Before I could respond by calling her a tramp, I was interrupted with yet another bolt of hell that hit my stomach and proceeded with trip #2 to the lavatory.
I lose track of the numbered trips and think I am at around 9 or 10. I collapse on the couch and ask my brother to start loading a gun. He says no. I question if there is a god.
I fall asleep momentarily, only to be woken up by a Sonic commercial on the TV featuring their new fish products. I sprint to the bathroom but don’t make it.
I lay on the cold kitchen floor to try to lower my body temperature (don’t ask, I was delirious). I start to whimper and think there is no end in sight. I begin to write out my will on my blackberry, on the kitchen floor.
The sun starts to rise and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look like a darker haired Charlize Theron from Monster. I whimper a little more.
I drink my first sip of liquid. Sprite was the choice. It stayed down. I won.