Elimination

Did I tell ya I got worms?  Yup, sure do.  Hominis Blastocystis.  It's a parasite common in Mexico that lots of Americans bring home.  It's not exactly Montezuma's Revenge, which  has a short but miserable life.  Blasto can last . . . well, forever.  Some people pick it up and just carry it around in perfect harmony with their bodies.  Others, like me, become symptomatic and uncomfortable and require treatment.

My symptoms were a pain in the ass.  Literally.  My poop turned too soft and then watery, and then I started shitting several times a day, and always 10 minutes after eating.  Soon, my toilet sessions were more like explosions:  lots of noise and rumbling and projectiles flying down into the water at alarming speed.  I even crapped my pants a time or two. 

Sorry to be so graphic.

This had been going on for a couple of months when, last week, I reached the end of my rope.  My shins were swollen  and would dent when I touched them.  I've had that a time or two before but it usually went away.  This was persistent.  Bob and I were talking about Luther Vandros' death and he mentioned that as one of his symptoms; and then a neighbor came over and turned ashen when he told her about it.  She walked over and touched my memory foam legs.  'You need to go to the doctor,' she said. 

So the next morning, after my first explosion of the day, I did.  It was Sunday and I went down to Sharp Rees-Stealy Urgent Care.  That's my medical group and I couldn't be more happy with them.  I have a charming young American doctor who is of Asian descent (as opposed to an Asian Doctor.  What I'm trying to say is that he's racially Asian but was born here and is American as apple pie.)  His name is Dr. Ho.  No shit.  But he's bright and energetic and easy to talk to.  I can usually get in to see him with a week or two notice.  When I need something  NOW, however, I just walk in to Urgent care and get seen in a matter of minutes. 

It's not like I'm a regular or anything, but when I went in this time they recognized me and even called me by name.  'Where's the little woman?'  the smiling Lesbian nurse asked as she took me to an examining room.  'You mean little man, don't you?' I asked.  'Same thing,' she replied. 

I told her what was going on and she knit her brow.  That's something I like a lot.  I'm sitting there telling her about my poop and swollen legs (which aren't swollen today) and feeling like the biggest hypochondriac in the world and she reacts by looking concerned.  Maybe I'm not just a big old baby after all. 

'Do you think you could work up a little specimin for me?' she asked. 

'Probably,' I replied.  'I'm can usually crank out a little poop at almost any time.'  So she gave me an emesis cup like thingy that fit between the toilet seat and the water to catch my crap and sent me to the bathroom.  As promised, I delivered;  but then I had another problem.  It was the symptom I didn't tell you about:  the hideous stench of my recent dumps.  I mean, it's just horrendous. 

I took the cup out of the toilet and looked around the bathroom wondering what to do with it.  I didn't want to carry it down the hall for obvious reasons.  Hell, I didn't even want to open the door!  Finally I decided to place the cup on the back of the toilet and cover it with a paper towel.  Maybe it wouldn't smell so bad if it was covered.  Uh- huh. I went back to the examining room and met the nurse.  'Success?' she asked.  'Yeah,' I said and she made a move to the door.  'But I gotta warn ya . . . it's bad . . . really bad.' 

'I'm sure I've seen worse,' she said, grinning.  'You're just too sensitive,' and off down the hall she went to my little tomb of toxicity. 

A few minutes later a very clean young gay doctor came in (my God:  is everyone in San Diego gay?) and told me his suspicions.  Something I picked up in Mexico during one of my frequent crossings.  He'd ship the poop off to the lab for a culture and they'd call me. Which they did a couple of days later.  Yup, I had Blasto.  Unfortunately, getting rid of the little buggers is not that easy.  I've been taking 750 mg. of Flagyl 3 times a day for 10 days (today's the last of the series) and have been forwarned that it might not do the trick. 

I went to see Dr. Ho a couple of days ago to follow up.  He really didn't have much to add:  everything else looked fine.  But his assistant girl person who I believe is Hispanic (but of course, I believe I'm Hispanic, too), told me she had the same thing earlier this year.  The Flagyl didn't work for her.  She had to do three courses of treatment before she got rid of it. 

Interesting:  she is one of that new breed of San Diegans who have chosen to live south of the border.  It's a whole new trend:  American citizens choosing to live in Tijuana because they can afford the housing there.  With an average starter home going for about half a million here, I guess it was inevitable.  'But I buy all of my stuff on this side,' she said.  'My water, my food, everything.  I don't wanna get sick, you know?' 

I know.

It's all about elimination.  I'm eliminating Blastocystis from my butt just as she did.  I'm eliminating the alcohol habit from my life (it's gotten to the point where not drinking is becoming routine.  I rarely think about it), I'm spending lots of time walking my dog and picking up the little nuggets he eliminates every day.  I've eliminated Sprint and taken on Verizon (jury's still out but I think it was a good move).  And tonight I eliminated something else.

I only have 20 or so years left, you know.  The phrase, 'Life's too short . . . ' has never had more meaning.  For all the years we've been together, Bob's been in charge of the food.  No, I'm not a culinary bozo.  Yes, I've had my kitchen disasters, but generally I'm a pretty good cook. What's more I like to cook.  The problem has to do with flexibility. I am and he's not.  When it comes to food, I'm happy eating just about anything.  I really like adverturous dining and trying new things, but I'm usually content with whatever shows up in front of me.  He on the other hand, is the single most inflexible eater I've ever met: so he has to control the dining experience.

He's a very good cook, whipping up Mexican specialties that are utterly fabulous.  Unfortunately, he only makes about five things.  And that's what we have over and over.  I remember my high school and early adult pal, Annie Fannie back in Atlanta who had seven specific meals that she made each evening, one for Monday, one for Tuesday and so on.  Her Saturday shopping list was always the same and you always knew exactly what was for dinner without asking.  Tuesday was Meat and Bean dish;  yum.  Bob's the same thing without the organization.  It's complete chaos.  So much so that even the simplest tacos can take two to three hours to create.  We seldom eat before 9 and often after 10. 

Eating out is just about as restricted.  He'll go to Hong Kong, a funky hole in the wall Chinese place, Joes Crab Shack, Anthony's Fish Grotto (an ultra casual picnic by the bay kinda place), and a couple of hamburger joints.  He'll also eat in one of the local Mexican themed bars, but usually Mexican out is out:  Nothing's made the way he'd make it. 

Tonight was typical.  'Come on, honey,' he said, 'let me take you out for dinner.  Where would you like to go?'

'Oh, cool; why don't we try that new pizza place that opened up.  It's been years since I had a pizza sitting down in a restaurant.' 

It was slight, but I saw the change in his face.  This new place wasn't on his list. 

'Uh . . oh,' I stammered, 'you don't want pizza. . . '

'No, no! That's fine . . . I'll just have a salad or something.'  

'Oh, come on.  What's the fun in that?  If we're gonna get a pizza we're gonna share it, right?'

'How about some Won Ton soup?'  he offered.

'Hong Kong?' I asked.  'Sure, that works.  But let's not get heaps o' food like we usually do, just a Wor Won Ton and one entree.  You pick it.' 

We debated whether to eat there or somewhere else all the way down the block and around the corner until we got to the place and walked in.  Seated, we re-read the menu that we already had memorized.  We started to debate entrees.  Of course,  I really didn't give a shit.  Then the one waitress he absolutely despises (for what reason, I've never been able to ascertain) showed up to take our order. 

'We're not ready yet,' he glowered. 

As she moved away, I closed my menu. 'You know what?' I said.  'Maybe this isn't the right night for the Hong Kong?   Wanna go get a pizza?' 

'Yeah, let's get outa here.' 

But that didn't settle it.  All the way down the sidewalk he became grumpier and grumpier and started snapping off at me for a myriad of sins and stupidities.  By the time we reached the corner and could see the new pizza place across the street he was downright offensive.  I knew what this was about:  It was sheer terror at encountering a strange restaurant.

I could see it unfolding before us.  He'd get a menu and read every word.  The waiter would come by three times before he'd say he was ready.  I'd be playing with the water circles on the table and reading the back of the sugar packets.  I'd make my order quickly, probably not really deciding what I wanted until it came out of my mouth . . . or I might have just told the waiter to bring me whatever he liked best on the menu.  Then it would be Bob's turn.  He'd start the interview. 

'What kind of cheese?' . . . and 'Is the sauce smoothe?  or chunky?'  and 'Is that all on one plate?' and on and on and on.  This waiter inquisition might go on for 7 minutes or more.  Finally, he'd close his menu and say:  'You know, I think I'll just have water.' 

I could argue with him; I've done it in the past.  Or I could ignore his craziness and try to enjoy my dinner; but who am I kidding?  His foulness would grow with every bite and it would be one of the single most horrible dining experiences of my life.  Or, I could just cancel the order and leave . . . at which point he'd be arguing with me saying he wanted to stay and on and on and . . . so much drama. 

So, standing there on the corner, waiting for the light to change, I took a left turn and headed down the block.  He was across the street before he noticed I wasn't following. 

"Hey!' he called, 'You've got the money!' 

I reached in my pocket and pulled out the $50 I had and waved it over my head, never looking back.  Yep, I thought, I sure do.  Got the keys, too.

At Fifth I turned right in the general direction of home.  As I walked by the Brass Rail, I thought to myself:  he'll probably follow me.  He'll be badgering me all the way home.  I have no patience for that right now. . .  I know, I'll duck into David's Coffeehouse and have a tea.  He'll just breeze right on past and never see me.  Which he did (breeze on past) and didn't (see me). 

I enjoyed a lovely Chai Latte and made a decision.  I'm no longer going to let him be the dinner tyrant.  The dinner Nazi.  I know, it's probably going to create even more drama and unpleasantness in my life, but like I said:  I only have 20 years left.  Life's way too short to be stuck in a culinary mausoleum.  I love his cooking, but I'm tired of the same five dishes and I'm tired of eating so late in the evening.  'Please don't cook for me anymore,' I said when I came home (he'd crawled through the kitchen window). 'And please don't take me to Joe's Crab Shack, the Hong Kong, Anthony's, Dennys or In-N-Out ever again.  Nothing personal . . . I'm just . . . tired.' 

Master of the flip flop that he is, Bob nobly turned everything back on me, which justified his insistance on living in a rut and made me the evil step-husband.  'Yes,' I said, remember my mothers' favorite phrase in such situations, 'That's right, I'm the shitass.' 

So I've eliminated my dependence on Bob to make the dinner decision.  I'll make my own, thank you.  Since I quit getting numbed out on booze every night I've also eliminated my seat on the the great couch of life, watching the tube night after night with him.  I'm spending much more time in my office, reading and writin' and doin 'rithmatic.  We've slowed our sex life down to a snail's crawl (it's just too much work right now) and I wouldn't be surprised that after all these years we actually eliminate that too. 

Looking forward, I can almost see us eliminating each other.  Wouldn't that be wonderful?