reunited (poo)
27 March 2006
Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to welcome back a very special friend. After an eight month hiatus, we have been reunited. Yes, it was only a matter of time before hypochondria and I got together again.
Some background before I get into my current neurosis: a few years back, I had a "health scare." I discovered something on my otherwise flawless body and went to my doctor, who upon examining me said, "Hmph." As in, "I really don’t know what to make of that one, chubby." NOT the answer I was looking for. I was then referred to a specialist who was much more tactful and after some tests found that it was nothing to be concerned about. So in the end, it all worked out.
[I'm not talking about anything genital-related here. One of the (very few) major advantages to having a pinkie dick and tiny balls is that you can spot trouble a mile away, since there's not a lot of surface area to check down there. However, testicular cancer is the most common cancer in men ages 15 to 35, so please sure to give yourself a proper once-over once a month. For more information, go here.]
The problem was that there were were long lapses of time between the discovery and the dismissal. I found it and went to the doctor a week later. After hearing his "Hmpf", I waited a week for the appointment with the specialist. Then I waited a week for the test results. So there were roughly three weeks there where I was left in the lurch. During this time, I completely lost my mind.
I don’t know how to explain it, other than to say that the wheels completely came off. I was certain that a) I had cancer; b) I was going to die. You couldn’t convince me otherwise. The doctor visits, the forms, the tests – these were just formalities. I was going to die. Done deal.
I have no idea why I went so crazy. I was a little bit of a hypochondriac as a kid, but it was mostly stupid kid stuff. Previously, I had never really been to the doctor’s and considered myself indestructible. And suddenly, I was spending two hours a day in the shower imagining my own funeral and wondering how much time I had to parlay my illness into a threesome before I got too sick.
But even after I had gotten the clean bill of health, a residual feeling of illness and death hung over me. I moved from a cancer scare to an obsession with my heart, since I noticed that when getting all worked up about cancer my heart would race. So therefore I had heart problems. This would be the thrust of my hypochondria for the next few years.
[I actually started this blog at the height of my hypochondria, perhaps subconsciously as a form of therapy. "Everything is wrong with me", the title I quickly came up with but turned out to be pretty fitting (if I do say so myself), is basically a hypochondriac's mantra. It was only later, through continued writing on this here site, that I would learn that "everything is wrong with me" refers not only to my health or fake health, but also to how I handle relationships with women, friends, family, food, and booze, and also to my general outlook in life. Score.]
My heart was my main issue until last summer, when I finally caved in and got a stress test. It was one of the best decisions I ever made, because the moment that the doctor told me that there was nothing wrong with my heart, that I was just fat, I was instantly cured of my hypochondria. For years I was consumed with my own impending death by heart attack and all it took was a few minutes on a treadmill with a battery pack strapped to me and it was all gone and done. Life was good again.
That is not to say that I stopped believing that I’m going to die young. I mean, c’mon, this is a foregone conclusion. You can’t do what I do on a daily basis and make it very long. I’m ok with this, but there’s a delicate balance: I want to live long enough to actualize my potential (and yes, I’m talking about writing poop jokes) but not long enough that people have to wipe my ass for me. Or even long enough that I can’t get a boner. Which would mean I should have been dead four years ago. Whatever. The point is that I was cured.
And then this weekend happened.
Last week, I was out sick on Wednesday. Stomach issues. Upset stomach, pooping, cramps – you name it. They weren’t terrible, but they struck at night and kept me up very late. When I woke up for work, I was still feeling pretty crappy, and weighed my options. I could go into work, feel uncomfortable for nine hours, and spend the day running from office to toilet or I could call out, stay with my home toilet, and get over it. Knowing that I wasn’t going to be particularly busy that day and that I could still work a bit from home, I opted for the sick day and the home toilet. Great decision.
Fast forward a few days until this past Saturday. I got take out from my favorite Mexican place for dinner, a little place on the Lower East Side called Festival Mexicano. The food is cheap and terrific, but it’s one of those places where you wonder how it manages to pass a health inspection. However, you suppress this for the dynamite food.
I got home and after inhaling the bean quesadilla and guacamole nachos, I had to poop. Not surprising. So I gave forth and it was good.
Then it happened a few more times. Again, normal.
Then my buddy Jeremy came over and we drank beer for six hours. But I wasn’t that drunk. Normal behavior.
When I woke up on Sunday, I went to eat breakfast with my roommate Brian: pancakes (delicious) and a California omelet (eh). While walking back to our apartment, I started feeling pains in my stomach. Not an uncommon feeling, so I forgot about it.
Sunday evening was the turning point. [Warning: the next few sentences are not for the squeamish.] I pooped, wiped, and was chagrined when I looked at the t.p. and it looked like I was mopping up a murder scene. Good lord. I know you should be concerned when there’s blood in your stool, but how about when there’s stool in your blood? I’m not averse to a little red on the toilet paper, as I’m a rough wiper and poop several times a day. But this was, um, new.
I felt myself slipping into panic mode but tried to talk myself out of it, saying it’s gotta be a one time thing. As long as it doesn’t happen a lot, it’s not a big deal. Later in the night, still feeling stomach pains, I went poo again. There was blood again this time, though less than before. But the fact that it seemed to lessen didn’t help me anyway – it was time to party. And by "party" I mean "freak the fuck out."
Last night (Sunday night) was a good, old-timey hypochondria night. The kind where before I go to bed I email my buddy Kyle, who has become my steward of goodbyes, and ask him to tell my loved ones that I love them should I die in my sleep (Kyle hates when I do this, not because he’s sad that I might die, but because I’m such a fucking drama queen).
Then I got to lay in bed for three hours, imaging all sorts of further symptoms. For example, when I first laid down to sleep, I knew that I had some stomach pains, there was blood in my poo, and I had heartburn. After two hours of lying there, I had those symptoms but also a fever, chills, a tingling in my neck and extremities, shortness of breath, an impending sense of doom, nausea. and more than likely herpes.
Finally, as it was approaching 4am and my body started to shut down, I jolted myself awake several times right on the doorstep of sleep, unsure if I was falling asleep or dying. Let me tell you, that’s an awesome feeling. Really, really awesome.
The good news is that I made it through the night, but there’s still bad news. I pooed twice today already and there was no blood, but lots of blackness. That’s either a sign of intestinal bleeding or an offshoot of the bottle of Pepto I drank last night/this morning. Great. I’m also exhausted, but I can’t have any caffeine, as that excites the bowels (which I am not trying to do). So I can’t win.
Let me be clear about something: I’m not going to the doctor’s for an ass problem unless my ass or a child falls out of my body. Something drastic is going to have to happen before I seek medical advice for this. I know this is the opposite of hypochondria, but maybe my hypochondria is working against me here. Since I’m pretty sure it’s all in my mind or (more likely) it’s nothing and just a passing stomach bug, I’m not going to have all kinds of stuff done to my heinie. If I faint at work or have another major blood-letting, maybe. But otherwise, I ain’t going to the doctor.
[And yes, I know I went for the stress test, but running on a treadmill shirtless is a lot different than three strangers in a room staring up your butthole and putting things in your butthole. So don't even go there.]
[Also, remember, I've been without meat or fowl since 3/1. Not sure what this has to due with my present condition, but it's worth mentioning.]
So I turn to you, dear readers. I have asked for money and love in the past (and will again this week), but now I seek help. Any advice as to what I can do to make my stomach less volatile or generally calm it down would be appreciated. Our goal for the next two days is a nice brown, blood-less poopy. Nothing would make me happier.
But if I die before then, I want you to know that I’m happy and think I’ve had a pretty good run. And dying young means you can’t die a failure. All that actualized potential will turn into "If he had only lived, he could have been the greatest dick joke writer ever!" after my death. Better to knock off now than later, before one of my projects comes to fruition and people realize that wow, I really do suck and I’m not even among the top 1000 dick jokes writers of all time. Not even close.
[And I'm writing almost to ensure that I don't die. Seriously, has any hypochondriac ever written something about thinking they're going to die and then actually died? Wouldn't that be messed up if I die tonight and then you read this, thinking, "Holy shit - he actually did die! I'm sad and all, but I'm more impressed, I think. At least he was serious."]
So that’s all for now. I have a fantasy baseball draft to prepare for tonight (four in total this week) and get back to imagining more symptoms and illnesses. I’m feeling that a wave of smallpox might strike me at any time, so I should probably focus less on writing posts and more on staying hydrated and taking vitamins.
[Upon reading this over, what's exemplary about this post is not only that I've shared my gastrointestinal problems with thousands of people on the internet, including relatives and co-workers, but that I'm going to write a post later in the week which will (most likely) solicit readers for a threesome (in part, at least). Wow. I reallly have no clue when it comes to women.]
Some background before I get into my current neurosis: a few years back, I had a "health scare." I discovered something on my otherwise flawless body and went to my doctor, who upon examining me said, "Hmph." As in, "I really don’t know what to make of that one, chubby." NOT the answer I was looking for. I was then referred to a specialist who was much more tactful and after some tests found that it was nothing to be concerned about. So in the end, it all worked out.
[I'm not talking about anything genital-related here. One of the (very few) major advantages to having a pinkie dick and tiny balls is that you can spot trouble a mile away, since there's not a lot of surface area to check down there. However, testicular cancer is the most common cancer in men ages 15 to 35, so please sure to give yourself a proper once-over once a month. For more information, go here.]
The problem was that there were were long lapses of time between the discovery and the dismissal. I found it and went to the doctor a week later. After hearing his "Hmpf", I waited a week for the appointment with the specialist. Then I waited a week for the test results. So there were roughly three weeks there where I was left in the lurch. During this time, I completely lost my mind.
I don’t know how to explain it, other than to say that the wheels completely came off. I was certain that a) I had cancer; b) I was going to die. You couldn’t convince me otherwise. The doctor visits, the forms, the tests – these were just formalities. I was going to die. Done deal.
I have no idea why I went so crazy. I was a little bit of a hypochondriac as a kid, but it was mostly stupid kid stuff. Previously, I had never really been to the doctor’s and considered myself indestructible. And suddenly, I was spending two hours a day in the shower imagining my own funeral and wondering how much time I had to parlay my illness into a threesome before I got too sick.
But even after I had gotten the clean bill of health, a residual feeling of illness and death hung over me. I moved from a cancer scare to an obsession with my heart, since I noticed that when getting all worked up about cancer my heart would race. So therefore I had heart problems. This would be the thrust of my hypochondria for the next few years.
[I actually started this blog at the height of my hypochondria, perhaps subconsciously as a form of therapy. "Everything is wrong with me", the title I quickly came up with but turned out to be pretty fitting (if I do say so myself), is basically a hypochondriac's mantra. It was only later, through continued writing on this here site, that I would learn that "everything is wrong with me" refers not only to my health or fake health, but also to how I handle relationships with women, friends, family, food, and booze, and also to my general outlook in life. Score.]
My heart was my main issue until last summer, when I finally caved in and got a stress test. It was one of the best decisions I ever made, because the moment that the doctor told me that there was nothing wrong with my heart, that I was just fat, I was instantly cured of my hypochondria. For years I was consumed with my own impending death by heart attack and all it took was a few minutes on a treadmill with a battery pack strapped to me and it was all gone and done. Life was good again.
That is not to say that I stopped believing that I’m going to die young. I mean, c’mon, this is a foregone conclusion. You can’t do what I do on a daily basis and make it very long. I’m ok with this, but there’s a delicate balance: I want to live long enough to actualize my potential (and yes, I’m talking about writing poop jokes) but not long enough that people have to wipe my ass for me. Or even long enough that I can’t get a boner. Which would mean I should have been dead four years ago. Whatever. The point is that I was cured.
And then this weekend happened.
Last week, I was out sick on Wednesday. Stomach issues. Upset stomach, pooping, cramps – you name it. They weren’t terrible, but they struck at night and kept me up very late. When I woke up for work, I was still feeling pretty crappy, and weighed my options. I could go into work, feel uncomfortable for nine hours, and spend the day running from office to toilet or I could call out, stay with my home toilet, and get over it. Knowing that I wasn’t going to be particularly busy that day and that I could still work a bit from home, I opted for the sick day and the home toilet. Great decision.
Fast forward a few days until this past Saturday. I got take out from my favorite Mexican place for dinner, a little place on the Lower East Side called Festival Mexicano. The food is cheap and terrific, but it’s one of those places where you wonder how it manages to pass a health inspection. However, you suppress this for the dynamite food.
I got home and after inhaling the bean quesadilla and guacamole nachos, I had to poop. Not surprising. So I gave forth and it was good.
Then it happened a few more times. Again, normal.
Then my buddy Jeremy came over and we drank beer for six hours. But I wasn’t that drunk. Normal behavior.
When I woke up on Sunday, I went to eat breakfast with my roommate Brian: pancakes (delicious) and a California omelet (eh). While walking back to our apartment, I started feeling pains in my stomach. Not an uncommon feeling, so I forgot about it.
Sunday evening was the turning point. [Warning: the next few sentences are not for the squeamish.] I pooped, wiped, and was chagrined when I looked at the t.p. and it looked like I was mopping up a murder scene. Good lord. I know you should be concerned when there’s blood in your stool, but how about when there’s stool in your blood? I’m not averse to a little red on the toilet paper, as I’m a rough wiper and poop several times a day. But this was, um, new.
I felt myself slipping into panic mode but tried to talk myself out of it, saying it’s gotta be a one time thing. As long as it doesn’t happen a lot, it’s not a big deal. Later in the night, still feeling stomach pains, I went poo again. There was blood again this time, though less than before. But the fact that it seemed to lessen didn’t help me anyway – it was time to party. And by "party" I mean "freak the fuck out."
Last night (Sunday night) was a good, old-timey hypochondria night. The kind where before I go to bed I email my buddy Kyle, who has become my steward of goodbyes, and ask him to tell my loved ones that I love them should I die in my sleep (Kyle hates when I do this, not because he’s sad that I might die, but because I’m such a fucking drama queen).
Then I got to lay in bed for three hours, imaging all sorts of further symptoms. For example, when I first laid down to sleep, I knew that I had some stomach pains, there was blood in my poo, and I had heartburn. After two hours of lying there, I had those symptoms but also a fever, chills, a tingling in my neck and extremities, shortness of breath, an impending sense of doom, nausea. and more than likely herpes.
Finally, as it was approaching 4am and my body started to shut down, I jolted myself awake several times right on the doorstep of sleep, unsure if I was falling asleep or dying. Let me tell you, that’s an awesome feeling. Really, really awesome.
The good news is that I made it through the night, but there’s still bad news. I pooed twice today already and there was no blood, but lots of blackness. That’s either a sign of intestinal bleeding or an offshoot of the bottle of Pepto I drank last night/this morning. Great. I’m also exhausted, but I can’t have any caffeine, as that excites the bowels (which I am not trying to do). So I can’t win.
Let me be clear about something: I’m not going to the doctor’s for an ass problem unless my ass or a child falls out of my body. Something drastic is going to have to happen before I seek medical advice for this. I know this is the opposite of hypochondria, but maybe my hypochondria is working against me here. Since I’m pretty sure it’s all in my mind or (more likely) it’s nothing and just a passing stomach bug, I’m not going to have all kinds of stuff done to my heinie. If I faint at work or have another major blood-letting, maybe. But otherwise, I ain’t going to the doctor.
[And yes, I know I went for the stress test, but running on a treadmill shirtless is a lot different than three strangers in a room staring up your butthole and putting things in your butthole. So don't even go there.]
[Also, remember, I've been without meat or fowl since 3/1. Not sure what this has to due with my present condition, but it's worth mentioning.]
So I turn to you, dear readers. I have asked for money and love in the past (and will again this week), but now I seek help. Any advice as to what I can do to make my stomach less volatile or generally calm it down would be appreciated. Our goal for the next two days is a nice brown, blood-less poopy. Nothing would make me happier.
But if I die before then, I want you to know that I’m happy and think I’ve had a pretty good run. And dying young means you can’t die a failure. All that actualized potential will turn into "If he had only lived, he could have been the greatest dick joke writer ever!" after my death. Better to knock off now than later, before one of my projects comes to fruition and people realize that wow, I really do suck and I’m not even among the top 1000 dick jokes writers of all time. Not even close.
[And I'm writing almost to ensure that I don't die. Seriously, has any hypochondriac ever written something about thinking they're going to die and then actually died? Wouldn't that be messed up if I die tonight and then you read this, thinking, "Holy shit - he actually did die! I'm sad and all, but I'm more impressed, I think. At least he was serious."]
So that’s all for now. I have a fantasy baseball draft to prepare for tonight (four in total this week) and get back to imagining more symptoms and illnesses. I’m feeling that a wave of smallpox might strike me at any time, so I should probably focus less on writing posts and more on staying hydrated and taking vitamins.
[Upon reading this over, what's exemplary about this post is not only that I've shared my gastrointestinal problems with thousands of people on the internet, including relatives and co-workers, but that I'm going to write a post later in the week which will (most likely) solicit readers for a threesome (in part, at least). Wow. I reallly have no clue when it comes to women.]
