Not that I've been prolific or anything for a long-ass time, but there's a reason you haven't read anything by me in over a week. Three weeks ago this past Monday, I awoke with painful stomach cramps and a horrible bout of semi-diarrhea (it wasn't watery like my father's chili, but there was a lot of it, let me tell you). And, honestly, I wasn't phased a bit. I was actually quite surprised that prune juice works so well as a laxative.
Let me rewind for a second. See, the day prior, out in Sinchon with The 12th Letter, I lamented (see: whined like a little wussy-baby) that the mail hadn't been regulary delivered to my "office" in a few days, to which she suggested I try drinking prune juice*. I wasn't too keen on the idea, but there's a reason attractive women like me: because I let them boss me around. So I bought some prune juice (a 1-liter bottle for 8,000 fucking won) and drank the recommended 100ml serving suggested by the fine folks at Del Monte -- and Satan -- just before bed that evening.
This wasn't my first experience with prune juice. Back when the 18th Letter was a lower-case r, she sometimes got backed up like the service at Mister Donut when more than two customers are in the store; and I, being the admirable role model that I am, would sacrifice my pride and drink that fell beverage, hoping for a "monkey see, monkey do" effect. It has been my experience that children are easily fooled, but not so with young Rahne. Hell, the fiesty little creature has bested me at Simon Says not a few times, and at the rate we're going it won't be long before she's stealing my car keys to drive herself and her friends to a Dora the Explorer concert. (I mean, if I had a car.)
Anyway, prune juice tastes like gasoline without the pleasant smell. But it sure does work...or so I thought.
Tuesday morning, I again awoke with stomach cramps as painful to endure as James Joyce is to read**, and it was then I realized that prune juice isn't the effective constipation remedy I -- for a day, at least -- believed it to be. No, something bigger was at play here. Just what, exactly, I yearned to know. (Galactus?)
Or maybe I didn't, because for the next two weeks, despite chronic intestinal pain and a stool collection to rival your local pub's, I continued to forge on in life. I'd wake up (or, to be more precise, I'd be woken up), crap three or four times, go to work, come home for lunch and crap another couple of times, go back to work, come home, eat dinner, have a few beers, then go to bed.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
It wasn't until last Wednesday that I had to admit that this problem, ostensibly, wasn't going away, that it might be with me for the long haul. My intestinal cramps persisted all day, and I called into
work that morning and said I wouldn't be in.
Now, you would think that, for a man who prides himself on never missing work, Wednesday would have been my impetus to finally see a doctor. After all, even though I felt like a can of smashed assholes, I still felt guilty about not going to work. (This probably stems from the fact that, in the eighth grade, I missed something in the neighborhood of 35 days of school due to fake illnesses, and karma is, my friends, indeed a bitch.) So I should have gone to see a doctor and tried to find out what the hell was wrong with me me, right?
Perhaps; but don't give me too much credit for being intelligent, let alone rational. I went back to work on Thursday and felt fairly well, but Friday hit me like a bitch***. I still went to work, a Herculean feat on my part, but I stayed home that night writhing in agony.
On Saturday morning I went over to l'hopital, and boy was I fired up! I couldn't wait to learn the results. Ulcer? Intestinal cancer? A bad bout of gas that lasts three weeks? Gastroenteritis? The summer heat? Place your bets, folks.
I had a blood test, a urine test, some X-rays****, and that was that.
They didn't find anything wrong with me. Of course they didn't. That would have required actual medical work, such as looking inside my intestines. The doc didn't suggest that planet X of action, even though I probably need an endoscopy like Kobe needs Shaq, like Freddie Prinze Jr. needs Matthew Lillard...like...wait for it...I need you*****.
I can empathize. The doctor wanted to break north and enjoy her Saturday, and while I adamantly disagreed with her diagnosis (let's pretend she had one, instead of the "who the fuck knows what the hell is wrong with you, you slow mutant?" one I received), who am I to argue?
I may have a Ph.D. (a pretty huge dictionary), but the only post-graduate education I have came from The School of Hard Knocks, AND THEY DON'T GIVE OUT SCHOLARSHIPS. So I took my pills, said my prayers, and ate my rice porridge, hoping that whatever the hell was infesting my dungeon would be slain, if not by my immune system, then at least by whatever prescription the pharmacuetical global village would ration out to this forsaken continent.
"Do those pills have any side effects?" I inquired.
"Well," she retracted, "they might make you constipated."
Fast forward and replace "might" with "did." Still, I can't complain. My lower abdomen has been cooler than a polar bear's toenails for the past few days, and I think my Jimbrowski has reawoken from its ancient Mumra. (Not that it ever sleeps: Jimmy stays alert like Red.)
But, hell and damnation, I'm constipated.
* But not before asking if I was wearing an adult diaper.
** Am I trolling my own blog? I do believe I am!
*** with a saucepan
**** I mentioned this to Kennan the Barbarian: "They didn't cover my gonads with a lead blanket. Free vasectomy!"
***** That's your Valentine's Day gift for the next 12 years, sweetheart.