I can barely stomach it!

Medical bullshit, HO! Feel free to skip this blog if you don't want to know all about the long, painful history of my stomach.

So, as most who know me...uh, know...I've got a very sensitive stomach. This has been the case since around the fifth grade, where I woke up one morning to debilitating nausea that refused to quit for several weeks. This led to a shitstorm of doctors appointments, which in turn lead to me being subjected to all manner of medical tests. Once, I swallowed some chalky concoction and was tied to a rotating table, which I presume was some sort of cutting-edge x-ray or something. The most fun I ever had in regards to medical tests is when I was forced to swallow a small plastic tube that was forced down my esophagus through my nose, and was told that it would remain there for another 24 hours. As you can imagine, I was simply thrilled. I don't remember much of those two-dozen hours or so, except for sitting on the couch, miserable beyond words, watching C-3P0 trek across the desert while I wished for lightning to either strike me or my doctor dead. Either one would be nice.

The doctors then told me that I had so much acid reflux going on that they thought that their machine might have been broken, and that they wanted to perform the test again. I told them in no uncertain terms that they would never take me alive. Coming from a fifth-grader, that threat seems much more ominous.

The last indignity I had to suffer was an endoscopy, which basically means I was knocked unconsious (a whole other story, which I shall share presently) and had an optical tube shoved down my esophagus to check out my stomach.

All this bullshit, and no answers. They even started to think I was crazy, the fuckers.

Oh, right, the anaesthetic story.

So, when I was informed that a endoscopy described above was planned, I was less than pleased. I was a pissed-off little kid that just wanted to feel better, not be subjected to all manner of pokes and prods, each of which seemed to get my dickhead doctor off (can you tell that this is a bitter subject yet?).

When I was informed that I was to be knocked out for the procedure the first time, I freaked the hell out. I'd seen movies: they knocked you out right before they cut your ass open. The doctor assured me that this wasn't the case, but my opinion of him and his "honesty" was already on the chopping block after the whole "swallow this fucking tube don't worry it's not uncomfortable at all you won't even be able to feel it and if you try and pull it out again we'll have to hold you down you don't want that now do you" incident.

So, I told him that I didn't want to be knocked out. He magnanimously offered me two choices: needle, or gas. The first time, seeing no other option, I chose the gas. I don't know if you've been gassed before, but it ain't sunshine and roses. Imagine the feeling of losing your breath slowly over the course of about ten to thirty seconds. That shit freaks me out.

When I was informed that a second endoscopy was planned, I flatly refused the gas. Not only that, but I didn't want to be stuck with any damn needles, either. I'm no fan of needles. I'm not terrified of them, as I know some others are, but I'm hardly a fan of pins of surgical steel puncturing my epidermus.

He said that he understood, but asked if I knew that the needle was like a bee-sting, hardly any pain at all!

My "OMGBULLSHIT" meter slipped into the red at this point, since I'd been stung by a bee the summer previous, and that motherfucker hurt something fierce. I said as much. His face went blank for a second (I don't think he'd ever been called on that one before), and then he got this big, shit-eating grin on his face.

"I've got an idea," he said, and left the room. My spider-sense was tingling at this point, but my naive youthful idealism prevailed, and I relaxed.

The relaxation lasted about ten seconds, when he walked back into the room with an I.V. needle.

"What is that?!" I asked, already knowing what it was.

"Don't worry, I've got an idea," he said, and nodded to his orderly, who held me down while this gastapo doctor stuck the fucking needle in my hand. Bee-sting my pasty white ass. I'm sure it didn't help that I was fighting them both off with all the savage fury that a fifth-grader can muster.

When it was done, I stared at my mangled appendige in horror, and spared a glance of unrivaled hatred for this butcher that called himself a doctor, who then had the audacity to say, "There, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

He was lucky I didn't have a gun in my hand, is all I'm saying.

Anyway. All that bullshit, and no answers. Like I said, they started to think I was making this shit up for attention, or something. I was given a CAT scan. I was sent to a shrink, who told my mother that I was, and this is a quote, "disgustingly self-reliant". My mother, at her wits end, took me to practitioners of Eastern medicine. I remember a very surreal visit to one such doctor, who also happened to be an Hasidic Jew. Talk about bizzare, though he was a pretty interesting dude. He told me to stop drinking ice water. I can still remember my sense of incredulity, and telling him that there was no way I was getting acupuncture after seeing a diagram in his office that showed where needles went in a penis. Nuh-uh, holmes. Not this penis!

Eventually, we just gave up. I learned to deal with my intense stomach problems by eating very select foods, and eventually led to the abolishment of most dairy products from my diet. I would occasionally skip meals just to avoid the pain (since it was at its worst right after eating). Over time (and by "time" I mean "more than a decade of this shit"), the pain began to subside, and eventually things went back to normal. I'd have the occasional flare-up, but all-in-all, things were much better.

Cue the night of my birthday. After dinner at an overpriced restaurant, I wake early the next moring (about 1:00 A.M.) with a stomach that is boiling like a river of magma. I spent a good portion of that evening in the bathroom, praying for God to be merciful and strike me down. The pain eventually subsided, but my stomach was a-shambles for several days. That Friday, a piece of cake did the same thing. This Sunday, a bowl of soup has caused a flare-up that is still bugging me as I write this. I've been subsisting almost entirely on rice and miscellaneous bread products for the past two days.

At first, I attributed all this to bad food. Then I remembered last night about all those medical tests, and realized that this is exactly how I felt as a kid.

So, I did some research. I'm not going to bore you with the details: basically, something in my stomach is fucked up. Without going through the exact same bullshit as I did when a child, there are certain foods that I can skip and see if it helps:

• Chocolate. Damn. Well, it's not the end of the world.
  
• Alcohol. Damn. I'm a fan of wine, but if it will help get rid of the agonizing cesspool that has taken the place of my stomach, I'm willing to swear it off.
  
• Peppermint. Grrr! I love mint!
  
• Caffinated beverages. Les sigh. No more soda for me, I guess.
  
• Salt. Not on any official list, but I think that this might be something that contributes. I'm going to cut most of it out for a while. Bland food ahead. Blech.

Anyway, I'ma cut down on these and see where it leads me. Hopefully not to more needles.

Did you know I hate doctors?