Prose Blogging

He placed the small, plastic garbage can on the floor, feeling both repulsed and oddly fascinated by the disgusting collection of fluids congealing in the bottom. The thinner, less viscous, green bile raced around the darkened clumps where stomach acid had mixed with blood and mucus, turning almost black. The neon rivers seemed to glow as they coursed through the larger, darker clumps , the fluorescent sheen reminding him of ectoplasm, or what he imagined ectoplasm would look like. Perhaps cartoon acid was a better description. He imagined someone carelessly knocking a beaker over and seeing the glowing, green liquid eat through a table, hearing the tell-tale sizzle and then viewing thin cartoony wisps of smoke floating up, as only an acid-shaped hole remained. His esophagus was raw from vomiting all morning, and the animation in his head seemed to resemble old Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle cartoons, so he decided cartoon acid was a better analogy. After all, ectoplasm would most likely have some restorative benefit.

The matter settled, his stomach lurched, and he looked away quickly, regaining control before adding more to the bucket. He slowly straightened his arm, watching the drips fall faster and faster in the IV, until it was impossible to discern one from the next, and the now steady stream of fluids flowed down through the plastic tubing and into his arm. The IV fluid, though room temperature, created a numbing sensation in his veins, causing him to shiver violently under the thin hospital gown. The nausea medicine seemed to be taking effect, and he could no longer feel the unmistakable twinge in the back of his throat. Was the medicine working, or was he just imagining himself feeling better? The calm mechanics of the hospital and smooth, unhurried professionalism of the doctors had caused him to feel slightly better the moment he'd arrived, body numb, muscles locked, mind frantic. The curative powers of modern medicine were probably due as much to some placebic effect from watching fictionalized TV accounts as from science. On TV, doctors miraculously cured strange illnesses in the nick of time, finding the cure just as the patients neared death, before retiring to the break room to bang hot nurses. How could one not feel better at the hospital? Nothing bad ever seemed to happen in hospitals. Bad things happened in subways, and at intersections, and on overloaded backyard decks.

He eyed his sweatshirt sitting on the counter across the room, wondering why he was forced to remove it when he could have just rolled the sleeve up. The IV had come close to draining itself, and just minutes after its insertion, was now nearly two-thirds empty. Still cold, he pulled the hospital blanket up farther, trying to guess how many times it had been washed since someone died under it. Two? Five? Twenty? How many people die in hospitals in medium-size metropolitan cities every year? How many blankets do they have? Why the hell couldn't he just put on his sweatshirt? He lay back, closing his eyes and trying to relax his muscles in order to stop the shivering...

He had arrived in town less than forty-eight hours ago, intent on burning a few days of his two week break between jobs. Agenda? He had no agenda, save trying to put together a small presentation he needed to give in ten days to complete his certification as a golf professional. Mostly, he planned on watching some TV, drinking a few beers, and catching up with some high school friends he hadn't seen in months. The first night had been simple enough, some chicken and beer at one of those mid-level generic restaurant chains. Which one was it? Fridays? Chili's? Applebee's? Ruby Tuesday? They all seem the same. Surely there was some scathing intellectual commentary of the commodification of American taste that existed on the Internet somewhere. Most likely written by some wanna-be academic indoctrinated on Karl Polanyi theses and Chuck Palahniuk novels. Most likely, a white, upper middle class, card-carrying member of the intelligentsia, bound for success in corporate America, and slightly uncomfortable because of it.

He had played some pick-up basketball at the YMCA that night. Coincidentally, he'd played on an all-white team versus a couple of all-black teams, and not coincidentally, they'd won every game. While not yet on Wikipedia, there exists some principle that states all-white pick up teams generally outperform their all-black counterparts in full team games, unless huge physical dissimilarities exist. The reason is that white kids, suffering from years of embarrassing defeats in individual match-ups against black kids, realize that to avoid getting kicked off the court, their only hope lies in playing solid, fundamental, team basketball. Consequently, they spend the game setting picks, making extra passes, hitting three pointers and playing help defense while black kids, cocky from thrashing white kids in individual matchups their whole lives, are tempted to try to do it all themselves. Empirically, this theory had never been disproved to him, holding true from intramural games at college, to pickup ball at the outside courts, and now YMCA ball on a Wednesday night. He'd always wanted to test this theory at the NBA level, curious to see how a team consisting of Dirk Nowitzki, Steve Nash, John Stockton, Larry Bird, and some big, white center would stack up against Jordan, Shaq, Kobe, Dwayne Wade, and Lebron. Even with the principle, he still figured he'd bet on the black team in this example, unless the white team was coached by Phil Jackson, and the black team got Isaiah Thomas.

He hadn't done much the second day either, getting next to nothing done for PGA checkpoint, waxing a couple of his friends at Tiger Woods 2005 for Xbox, and eating half a cheesecake he found unattended in the fridge. It had been delicious. Once his friend had returned home from work, they had run to Taco Bell, and the Chicken Ranch Wraps he eschewed his normal Grilled Stuffed Burrito for had been a mistake. It had been years since he had tried anything else, not only did the Chicken Ranch Wraps not look anything like the poster (the Grilled Stuffed Burrito looks identical, placing it in a very select group of photogenic fast foods, along with the McDonald's ice cream cone, and Wendy's chicken nuggets), but they had also been unexpectedly diminutive.

He had recently decided that it was not man's strengths that made him human, but his weaknesses. Man's humanity is more clearly demonstrated in the fact that he dies, rather than because he lives. While free of many of the flaws that plague lesser humans, he still had a couple of weaknesses, namely narcissism, and top-shelf vodka. While technically he possessed the free will to be able to moderate his consumption of such spirits, occasionally events manifested themselves in such a way that his free will was negated. Events such as weddings, hurricane parties, and two dollar you-call-it's at VIP parties. Ironically, The Perfect Storm was playing on HBO that afternoon, filling the room with thick New England accents and as yet unnoticed symbolism. As people filtered into the apartment, Svedka vodka was poured into shot glasses and consumed, chased by some cheap tropical punch. His reaction was mixed. Grey Goose it wasn't, but it was definitely a step up from the Aristocrat pounded in leaner days at college parties. A few shots and fifteen minutes later, he and the others piled into a few vehicles and made their way to the bar, courtesy of drivers he didn't know.

He was held up at the door, his Florida license being carefully inspected. The process seemed somewhat weird, until he realized that it had been months, if not years, since he had last been carded. He realized that being in a town with a large, underage undergrad population, his out-of-state license probably seemed suspicious. After all, who leaves Florida to go to school in Michigan? No one that he had ever heard of. Finally allowed into the bar, he paused long enough to get his green bracelet signifying him as one of the lucky few who would be drinking for next to nothing tonight, and then ventured upstairs.

It was early, and the bar was far from busy. A few older people were mingling around the remains of a buffet, most likely the remains of some earlier birthday party held before the night bar rush, although judging by their ages, it could have just as well been a retirement party. He opened a tab, and within seconds, his first Grey Goose and Cranberry arrived. A few moments later, the empty glass was replaced with a full one, and a few moments later, the new glass was in turn replaced. Sitting in a booth watching the Mets-Dodgers game, he was soon absorbed in the idle bar chatter that goes with heavy drinking.

"You're retahded... No, you ah..."

The conversation was punctuated with Jimmy Fallon and Rachel Dratch SNL quotes whenever Nomar appeared at the plate for the Dodgers. He looked at his glass, and noticed he'd been saving the straws from each drink. How many straws were in his drink now? Seven? Nine? He lost interest in counting them before he arrived at a definitive number. Excusing himself, he made his way down the stairs to find a bathroom, gripping the handrail and taking the steps deliberately. He still felt sober, not sober enough to drive, but plenty sober enough to keep up his current pace. As usual, all the normal height urinals were in use, so he placed his hand on the wall as he leaned forward to make sure the splatter would stay in the urinal, and not rebound out and on to his pants and shoes.

As he made his way up the stairs back to the booth, he became aware that the bar had definitely picked up in intensity. No longer could he just wait at the table for the server to notice his emptying drink and replace it, but he had to fight his way through the crowd to the bar. To save time waiting, he began to order two drinks at a time. Later, he would view this as oddly analogous to much of American foreign policy in the latter half of the twentieth century, a short term fix that only fuels underlying problems. The problem with ordering two drinks at a time is that one is immediately downed in order to save the trouble of wandering around the bar with both hands full, while the other is eventually consumed at the normal rate. In essence, this nearly doubles the pace of drinking, but in a way that is not immediately obvious to the drinker.

He wandered over to where his friend was talking to a couple of girls, noticing that his buddy was paying much more attention to the more attractive one. A team player, he engaged the other in conversation. While talking to her, he kept noticing that he wasn't paying attention to what she was saying, but rather he was constantly lapsing into some internal monologue.

"What is with her hair? Why is it sticking up in the middle when it appears to be tied back? It looks like a female mohawk. Wait, I've seen this on other girls... when did this come into style? I wonder what it's called, does it even have a name? I think I'd call it the continental divide, or maybe... why did she stop talking? Did she just ask me a question? Shit! What was she just talking about?"

He had no idea, and he took advantage of the crush of people to slip away without looking like he was abandoning the conversation. At least, he tried to make it look like that.

"Fuck! You just broke my thumb, you asshole!"

He collided with his friend, jamming his thumb awkwardly into his chest, causing immediate swelling and tenderness in both knuckles. The pain was real, but deadened by the alcohol. He pressed on, fighting through the crowd, he made his way to bar and ordered two more drinks...

He woke up, shivering violently, clothed in a sweatshirt that wasn't his, still wearing the jeans from the night before. He felt his pockets, and found them empty. Where was his wallet? Cell phone? He remembered he'd left his keys at the apartment, but couldn't remember what else he'd had with him at the bar. He pulled the blanket up over him, it had only been covering his legs, and rolled away from his cramped position against the wall on the floor of the apartment. He was curled up in the fetal position in the corner of the hallway, next to the bathroom. Had he been throwing up? His mouth was dry and tasted like vomit, and throat felt raw. He vaguely remembered huddling over the toilet, on hands and knees, shivering constantly except for the brief periods of sweating immediately after the evacuation of his stomach.

He was freezing, why was he so cold? He racked his brain, trying to piece together what had happened after they had left the bar. Jumbled images came to mind, he remembered sitting on the curb talking to a couple of girls while also talking on his cell phone, but he couldn't remember their faces. So he had had his cell phone on him, hopefully, it was somewhere in the apartment next to his wallet. He remembered wandering around the city in just jeans and a shirt, knowing it was cold, and that he was cold, but not feeling cold. That explained the shivering, he must have gotten chilled while running through downtown trying to find someone he knew. How had he gotten back? He vaguely remembered a taxi ride, but couldn't place how he had flagged one down, or how he had given directions back to where he was staying. As far as he knew, he didn't know the way from the apartment to the bar, so he must have met someone he knew on the street.

As drunk as he was the night before, he felt amazingly good. He looked at his watch. Ten o'clock. He'd been asleep for at least seven hours. He stood up and stepped into the bathroom, noticing the shoes he'd worn the night before, and the vomit caked onto the top of the right one. He didn't feel hungover, his head felt clear, and he seemed to be moving without the uncertainty that happens when waking up before the ingested alcohol is fully processed. He turned the water on and took off his clothes. Looking at himself in the mirror, he didn't see any bruises, scratches, or caked blood. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless. He turned on the sink faucet and starting gulping the cold, clear water. He knew he was dehydrated, and drank as much as he could before turning the faucet off and stepping into the shower.

He stayed in the shower for over half an hour, turning the water hotter and hotter, but yet he wasn't able to stop shivering. Finally, he reached the point where the water could get no hotter, and he turned it off. He dried himself quickly, rushing to get back into some pants and the thick sweatshirt. He walked through the apartment, finally settling into the couch and covering himself with a blanket. One of the guys he knew from high school was playing Xbox, and he half watched while he tried to fall back asleep. He noticed that watching the TV was starting to make him feel nauseous, so he closed his eyes. It didn't help, but standing seemed to. He strolled over to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and started to drink. It caught in his throat. Putting the glass down quickly, he walked quickly to the bathroom, closing the door. He threw up quickly, and immediately felt better.

Minutes later, he joined one of his friends who needed to run a few errands. His friend needed to stop at the bank and then the gas station, and he wanted to purchase some Vernors' from the gas station to settle his stomach. While sitting in the car at the bank, his stomach wrenched again. He stepped out of the car, feeling somewhat refreshed by the cool fall air, but not completely. He threw up in the grass, feeling the stares of some Mexicans unloading a produce truck across the street. His stomach already emptied by vomiting earlier, he gasped and spat, covering the ground with green bile. He hated dry heaves. He hated how he felt that there was something inside him to be vomited, and how he knew that there wasn't. The agony was in the contradiction. He sat back in the car, ignoring the workers across the street, and waited for his friend to finish up inside the bank.

At the gas station, he purchased two twenty ounce bottles of Vernors', and once back at the car, opened one and took a small swig. The crisp taste and carbonation provided a welcome relief from the dry, stale taste of vomit. He was extremely thirsty, but had enough self control to pace himself, to make sure that he could hold down even a little bit. He smiled at the irony, had he paced himself last night, he wouldn't even be in his current position. Within minutes of arriving back at the apartment, he found himself once again hunched over the toilet, stomach painfully cramped, regurgitating the small bit of pop along with more stomach acid.

The intervals were shortening. Whereas he had almost forty minutes between the first and second time he vomited that morning, he was now throwing up regularly every ten minutes. Not only that, but his intestinal track was also... shaky. The problem with puking and pooping is a matter of proper ordering. Should he puke first, or poop first? Puking first raised questions of bowel control, as he imagined it would be easy for the wrong muscle to clench itself in the process, but on the other hand, throwing up into a toilet so recently fouled did not appeal to him either. After a brief moment of indecision, he decided to vomit second, but only after dousing the toilet with a thick layer of Febreze Air Freshener.

His hands were numb. He was puking roughly every five to eight minutes, and the time spent balanced on his hands and knees seemed to be taking a toll on his circulation. He thought that placing that much pressure on his wrists had started to limit blood flow to his hands, and he tried shaking them and leaning on his fists to restore the flow of blood. He vomited again, and began to notice that his legs were going numb also. He tried standing up and walking. However, rather than lessen the heavy feeling in his extremities, movement seemed to accentuate it. The numbness was spreading farther up into his arms and legs, and he could feel his face pulse. Four minute intervals, and now there was blood mixed in with the vomit. Immediately after vomiting, the dullness in his body would dissipate, only to return more severely seconds later. His stomach muscles were almost permanently flexed, squeezed so tightly that his breathing grew shorter, and more labored.

His face was now almost fully asleep. He thought of the movie Blow, and the quote from the small-time drug dealer after doing a line of almost pure coke.

"I can't feel my face, I mean, I can feel it, but I can't... feel it."

A million pin pricks seemed to be pushing up from the inside of his skull into his skin. He was starting to panic. He considered calling his parents and asking if he should consider visiting a hospital, but decided against it. He settled on calling one of his friends who was pre-med. He had found his phone and wallet earlier, but was now surprised how much difficulty he had trying to push the buttons on his phone. His hands had started to clench, fingers and thumbs extended, resembling clamps. He threw up again. He was now gasping for breath, only able to inhale shallowly and rapidly, as he couldn't get his stomach muscles to unclench. His friends had gone out to lunch, and he realized that he desperately needed to go to the ER. He thought about driving himself, but realized that he did not have sufficient control of his body to operate a vehicle, nor did he know where the hospital was.

He could now barely move, and his body was shutting down rapidly. Realizing that he was alone, and that in a short period of time he might be unable to get help, he called his friends, only to find that his jaw was now locking up. He was mumbling barely intelligible phrases, but they promised to rush back and take him in. His mind was racing, but there seemed to be no pattern to the thought. He couldn't think clearly, nor could he pull a solitary image or concept from the avalanche of his mind. He tried to walk downstairs after the phone call, to meet his friends outside and make it in faster, but his friends burst in before he made it out of the apartment. How long had it taken him to make his way to the front door from the bathroom? Thirty seconds? A minute? Three? He had no idea, it only seemed that there had been no delay between calling his friends and their arrival.

They half-guided, half-carried him down the hall, into the elevator, and into the Jeep in front of the building. Someone had thought to bring a small, plastic bucket, and he threw up again. Immediately after, he felt the brief relief of his muscles relaxing, and he found himself able to communicate clearly. It didn't last, and by the time they were stuck at a red light, the paralysis had returned.

"Fuck it, drive... I'll pay... ticket," he mumbled desperately, once again hunched over the small plastic bucket. He had no idea how far away the hospital was, and figured getting pulled over would at least provide them a police escort, saving them a few minutes in the process. The hospital was situated on top of the next hill, and pulling into the ER drive, he stumbled out of the front seat only to collapse into a waiting wheel chair.

Communicating with the nurse at the front desk was difficult, as his jaw was now almost completely immobilized. In an effort to speed things up, he struggled to remove his license and insurance card from his wallet, and placed them on the counter.

"Is this the right address?"
"No... I... don't live in Florida..."
"In town?"
"No... moving to Cleveland..."
"Where have you been living?"
"North Carolina... but don't live there... now... use parent's address..."

It took a few minutes for him to say the address clear enough for the nurse to register him. Finally, he was wheeled back to a room, where he collapsed on the bed momentarily, before vomiting into the plastic bucket. Two doctors, a physician's assistant, and a nurse all came through the room individually in the next twenty minutes, all asking the same questions, before he was finally hooked into an IV, and given some medicine to lessen his vomiting.

That was where he was now, reclining in the hospital bed, shivering under the thin blanket, gradually regaining the sensation of feel in his arms and legs. His breathing was less labored, now that the medicine had eased nausea's strong clench on his midsection, allowing him to close his eyes without immediately grasping for the bucket. The technical explanation for the paralysis had been a form of hyperventilation, as the near continuous vomiting had changed his breathing sufficiently so that he burned off more than the usual amount of carbon dioxide through respiration. Low carbon dioxide levels cause the blood vessels in the brain to constrict, creating the numbness in his face, and the rise in his blood's pH reduced the amount of available calcium, affecting his nerves and causing the numbness in his arms and legs. It would be a few hours until he was released, as the doctors ran tests to determine what had caused the initial wave of vomiting, but he knew.

28 hours later he would be engaged in some intense games of beer pong, esophagus aching, Miller Lite bottles stacking up on the counter, hospital bracelet still attached as a reminder to exercise better judgment. The keyword being better judgment, as the fact that he was drinking again was clearly against good judgment...