This blog post is going to be chock full of self pity.
Totally warning you.
I am sick.
What I mean is I've been sick, off & on, for the past six months. Losing my breakfast at work (obviously the best way to make a good impression). Fevers that max out at 103.1. General malaise. And, as I found out last week, I've lost eight pounds since November. Kind of a cool side effect, but the weight loss is what really made me worry. I never, and I mean never, lose weight. I can live off of Chick-fil-A or spend all of my free time at the gym & I will pretty much stay at a steady weight.
So I finally went to the doctor, chatted her up, & got some blood drawn.
My stomach is playing host to this little buddy.
Helicobacter pylori. H. pylori, if you're intimately acquainted (which I am) or of the medical profession (me again).
We probably met when I forgot to brush my teeth with bottled water in Puebla. Or when I ate one too many platanos fritos that time I went to Rocky Point. Or from all those fatcakes/bowls of porridges/dishes I didn't scrub quite well enough in Namibia. Or when I was trying to be polite & ate dinner at my patient's house. That last choice was probably the kiss of death, because I've convinced myself that a sense of adventure cures any little bug you might encounter in the Third World. Also, that semester of drinking/dancing/laughing a little too much in France probably did not help my immune system recover.
At any rate, a severe lack of sleep, 70-hour work weeks, & a diet heavily supported by cows who tell me to Eet Mor Chiken became the perfect storm in which my buddy H. pylori decided to sink my poor stomach's ship.
So. For the next two weeks, my life centers around antibiotics & proton pump inhibitors.
Moral of the story: Get some sleep. Eat some veggies. Don't kiss strangers in foreign lands. And only eat street tacos when they smell really, really amazing. At least then, the stomach demons were worth it.