Thursday, September 23, 2004
Medical Miracles
I found out today that I have an intestinal parasite.
Now perhaps this is not the sort of thing that I should be sharing with the world at large. Perhaps the topic should be assiduously avoided in recognition of the fact that it inevitably leads to graphic discussions of undeniably unpleasant symptoms and potentially defamatory allegations towards certain family restaurants in Lakeview. Perhaps I ought to just cower in my apartment, clutching my bottle of incredibly powerful antibiotic and watching the Mean Girls DVD repeatedly.
But for some reason I think it's hilarious.
I have told my parents, my friends, my coworkers, random people at my doctor's office, and Barbara Walters, as part of her grand send-off from ABC's 20/20. I have named my parasite Frank and announced that he is responsible for practically everything I do, from my decision to eat a half-pound bag of M&M's to my sudden lack of interest in reality television. I have made repeated, poorly-received cracks about how I'm "eating for two now." And now I am telling the world.
It's not so bad, really, aside from the searing intestinal pain. I've lost fifteen pounds in the past month and a half. I can eat whatever I want. Occasionally, I have visions in which I believe that I am the newest incarnation of the Son of God. They look a little bit like the Mel Gibson movie, to be honest.
So yeah. I have a parasite. And I don't live in a third world country. And I wash regularly. Almost compulsively.
But I'm taking pills that will kill it in a week. They may also kill me, because I can't drink while I'm on them. It's a calculated risk.
Goodbye, Frank.
I found out today that I have an intestinal parasite.
Now perhaps this is not the sort of thing that I should be sharing with the world at large. Perhaps the topic should be assiduously avoided in recognition of the fact that it inevitably leads to graphic discussions of undeniably unpleasant symptoms and potentially defamatory allegations towards certain family restaurants in Lakeview. Perhaps I ought to just cower in my apartment, clutching my bottle of incredibly powerful antibiotic and watching the Mean Girls DVD repeatedly.
But for some reason I think it's hilarious.
I have told my parents, my friends, my coworkers, random people at my doctor's office, and Barbara Walters, as part of her grand send-off from ABC's 20/20. I have named my parasite Frank and announced that he is responsible for practically everything I do, from my decision to eat a half-pound bag of M&M's to my sudden lack of interest in reality television. I have made repeated, poorly-received cracks about how I'm "eating for two now." And now I am telling the world.
It's not so bad, really, aside from the searing intestinal pain. I've lost fifteen pounds in the past month and a half. I can eat whatever I want. Occasionally, I have visions in which I believe that I am the newest incarnation of the Son of God. They look a little bit like the Mel Gibson movie, to be honest.
So yeah. I have a parasite. And I don't live in a third world country. And I wash regularly. Almost compulsively.
But I'm taking pills that will kill it in a week. They may also kill me, because I can't drink while I'm on them. It's a calculated risk.
Goodbye, Frank.
