DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

I took Friday off work and planned my four-day holiday weekend around recording. I’d already wired most of my mics and started adjusting placements. I was ready to rock! [insert sign of the goat]

Then I ate something nasty, or picked up something nasty at the playground. I’ll never know. But a slight headache on Thursday afternoon turned into a full-blown digestive emergency by nighttime. I spent 48 hours in deep, dark misery, and the next 24 eating little more than white bread while chugging fluids in an attempt to rehydrate. As of Sunday night my fingertips were still wrinkly.

The only time I ever got food poisoning was in 1989, some kind of Boboli pizza that had gone terribly wrong. I don’t remember being sick for more than one night. Perhaps distance strips away some of the painful details. I’m hoping that holds true in this case.

I actually saw a doctor on Friday. This was an issue more of convenience than anything else — when was the last time you saw a doctor the day you actually needed one? I didn’t want to miss the opportunity, if only so I could write about it.

She listened to my stomach while making an inventory of my symptoms. She pronounced my digestive tract “hyper-mobile,” which I thought was a pleasantly neutral way to communicate the awful churning reality of it. Every time I rolled over, I could hear the surf. Through the stethoscope, the doctor could probably make out the SONAR signals and whalesong too.