Stressing that phone call on Wednesday was like taking a gut punch. My insides went, well, crazy. I started wondering yesterday and woke up considering today if I was going to be having surgery to remove part of them on the left or if that spot was going to refrain from exploding. This problem is something my GI doc and I have discussed without resolution before: how do you know when your insides explode, when they often hurt enough to make it hard to breathe? When do you go to the ER?
He doesn't know either.
I had a good two days after the stressful call, too, got to visit with three friends, made some great food, got some great exercise, got an encouraging call from a recruiter who may have a lead on a local job in the next six weeks. You would think good stuff would cancel out bad.
Apparently not when it comes to guts with a mean streak.
I have, however, gotten ahead of a lot of this damn house. But it keeps trying to catch up with me. There was an article in the NYT yesterday about floor-cleaning robots. I think they are on the wrong track. We need Jetson-style serious kitchen and laundry robots. Dishes in cabinets, clothes in drawers. That little Roomba shit will not get it. Hell, we need errand robots; give them your debit card and a list and send them to the damn Kroger. Let them send you pictures of stuff they have questions about. Men engineers think small. We need more female engineers.
I need to go drink some Pedialyte to mediate this new belly disaster and try to rally for some errands in the heat. Three stops feels like Everest some days.
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