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As MOTH mentioned a few days ago, I was ordered off my feet, and off my ass...are you ready...about a weak back! I slay me.

I can't remember a single day in my life since parenthood that I haven't had some degree of lower back pain. Lots of weight on little frame produces painful stress. Last Monday, however, my body decided to force me to deal with it by causing tear inducing pain every time I moved. So, I went to an osteopath who deduced through x-rays that while my disks are in alignment, the disks in my lower back are showing signs of wear an tear and are bulging. He said that getting the swelling down was the priority and that we would then proceed to some physical therapy so that I can get to a place where I can begin an exercise program without making myself hurt more. So, gave me Darvicet for pain, Naproxin for swelling, and told me to stay horizontal, or diagonal, but not vertical for the rest of the week. And he wrote me a note to stay home from work.

On Thursday night, Eldest came home for the weekend. I have very little memory of him being here. I attributed it to the Darvicet fog place I was in.

By Friday night, I didn't seem any worse in terms of my back, but I sure felt icky. Nothing specific, but I just started feeling more achy and I thought perhaps I was posturing differently to compensate for my back, or maybe sleeping oddly. I just didn't know.

On Saturday, MOTH took my outside for the first time since Monday. We went to the new Home Depot to browse. On the way there, I started feeling queasy. My abdomen started cramping, like I was needing to move the ol' bowels, if you will. By the time we got to the store, I was sure I was going to mess myself, so I found the bathroom and spent about 15 minutes just sitting and hoping for the relief that never came. In all, I made 3 trips to that bathroom, with no results to show for it, not even a fart (I was all alone in there so I was absolved of the women's bathroom code.)

By the time we got home, I knew the tide had turned and I raced (OK, I wobbled) to the bathroom and exploded. Let me clarify that. I EXPLODED! It was the kind of explosion that left me weak and clammy, shaken. I don't know what compelled me to look back, perhaps it was the stench of rotting human flesh or worse emanating from my explosion, an olfactory experience the likes of which I could never have imagined. But whatever the reason, I looked back. Luckily.

I have seen some wicked things in my day. Granted, I haven't ever seen death aside from road kill and embalmed casket dwellers, so my experience is limited. But I think it's safe to say that few things make you panic like a toilet full of blood, especially when you've been without a uterus for over 5 years.

SO, like any child of a nurse would do, I called mom, and got her to agree with me that I could wait for the next day to see an urgent care. I figured that the Naproxin had riled up my stomach and caused a great deal of bleeding and I'd just skip the late night emergency room fiasco and just get a good looking over in the morning. Plus, the idea of an emergency room conjures up images of I.V.'s which tend to be jabbed into your hands as routinely as insurance release forms. So, I felt ok in my decision to wait.

It was a decision I soon regretted.

Sometime during the 10 explosions I had before bedtime, I began to experience a sensation I can only describe as the feeling that my lower intestine were being twisted like an old string mop. Brutal. My night was a series of crapping (or spraying to be more exact, and more explicit, and more gross), lying on the floor writhing and praying for the Lord to just take me, and deep Lamaze breathing to avoid puking (which added hours to my misery). I spent most of the night on the floor, then MOTH would realize I was not in bed, he'd come to the bathroom and be upset by the sight of my limp near lifeless body on the floor, would help me up and get me back into bed, until about 30 minutes later when the cycle would repeat. And yet, the idea of that I.V. kept me thinking that as long as I kept myself hydrated and I stopped the offending medications, I'd get better.

And actually, while I felt no better at all by yesterday morning, and my "frequency" had not diminished, the blood stopped and I was in a tad less pain. And so I decided that I need not go to the urgent care facility. However, to appease my mother and MOTH and all who love me, I contacted my primary care Dr. for affirmation that I was on the right track. Luckily he was on call and got right back to me.

Unfortunately he did not affirm my suspicions.

He gave many arguments for me taking myself to the E.R. I reluctantly agreed, knowing full well I wasn't going to comply. That is, until I went to the bathroom and again experienced a bowel movement right out of Halloween III. The fear of having the sever cramping begin again during the night was enough. I caved in. So I decided that as soon as I could get a "sample," I'd go in.

I think I agonized over the stool sample almost more than I agonized over the pain itself. I mean really, let me take some of my poop into a hospital and hand it over. What could be worse? Ok, I guess it would be worse to be the person who actually takes the poop from me, but ASIDE from being that person, what could be worse? And what, pray tell, was I going to splatter in? I mean, if were a normal thing, I suppose you'd just use your best silver plated tongs, and fish out the best looking one, bag it, and it's done. But being in the condition I was in, there was nothing to retrieve. I had to make a direct deposit, get it? And despite my mother's advice, which I usually take, I was not going to surrender a piece of Tupperware for this. I think I came upon a brilliant plan when I decided upon the Ziploc bag.

I'll skip the details involved in making sure I made a direct hit. Suffice it to say that after zipping the bag securely, placing it into another bag and zipping it securely, and then putting the precious cargo into a brown paper bag and folding it over several times, the stench emanating from the package was gob smacking. Even MOTH, who has no sense of smell, was offended.

I spent the rest of the evening in the E.R., gave about 5 vials of blood without crying or passing out. Peed in a cup. And then I got to give my "sample" to the not so bad looking male lab tech. Try not to be embarrassed about the fact that your examination room reeks like a scat crazed maniac has just spent 20 minutes smearing the walls, OK? He very graciously took the brown bag, and came back about 30 minutes later sheepishly asking me for more.

"Please Miss...I want some more."

Oh. My. God. They just needed a little more to complete the rest of the tests they wanted to run. I tried to keep a shred of dignity by making light of the situation, and commending him on a job that they couldn't pay me enough to do. He joked back that it wasn't his favorite thing in the world to do, and to be honest, my little package had made him puke.

Hell no.

Say what?

Can someone just bury me now, forget the execution. Here is a guy who has this job that no one in their right mind should have. This isn't an untrained position, this is a SPECIALIZED job. Granted, he deals with blood and other types of samples, he's not just a pooh-man, but come on, he deals with OTHER PEOPLE'S pooh! How incredibly gross can that be?!?! And to top it off, despite the fact that he must deal with this substance at least weekly if not daily, MINE made him PUKE!

Well, that piece of news absolutely cured my case of the flying bloody spritz. The tech seemed just a bit relieved knowing that he had nothing more from my body to analyze and quickly left before my bowels changed their mind. Finally the Dr. came in and said that while we needed to wait for cultures and such to confirm it, I most likely had a case of E-coli.

Ibe-coli.

I got some antibiotics and went home and in the comfort of my own pooh-room I resumed my deadly excretions.

I was hoping to feel better by today, but as I write this, my fever is going up, my intestines are once again dancing the Chubby Checker twist, and while my stool has more consistency than urine, it is no less red.

So again, will somebody just shoot me?

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