So I woke up the next day, around the crack of noon.
Alcoholics do not suffer hangovers.
We are immune.
We do, however suffer other, potentially more serious maladies:
Disgusting bouts of vomiting.
Irrevocably lost friendships.
Saying “I’m sorry,” ten thousand times—never takes–but say it anyway.
I could go on, but I’d like to finish this post sometime today.
I had no hangover, but it did not take me long to realize I had something else going on:
A pain work me up, tapped upon my shoulder, and said,
“Guess what? Asshole? You’re fucked; We have you now.”
A pain in my abdomen which caught my undivided attention straight – away.
And it wasn’t playin’.
It was not nothing nice,
I have never experienced pain such as this.
I tried to self-medicate with Jim Beam.
Tried that for a couple of hours.
This was some serious vile shit.
And not nothin’ nice.
My undying (no pun), thought was that my appendix had burst. And I did not want to go out like Houdini.
Finally gave up and dialed 911.
“Nine-One-One, what is your emergency?”
“I have ‘Houdini.’”
“Excuse me, Sir?”
“I think my appendix has burst. And oh, as an added bonus, probably at this point, alcohol poisoning.”
“Where are you, Sir?
“Sir, an address?”
“Magnuson Hotel, some room.”
“Your name, Sir?
“Ok, I am dispatching EMT now. Stay put.”
(Really, ‘stay put?’ I cannot even walk, the pain is so fucking bad, on top of the half-fifth of self-medication I had administered.)
“Sure, I’ll stay put. Please tell the EMT not to take their time; I am dyin’ up in here.”
I could not have known at the time, but this was to be but the first of three and a half trips I would take to the Commerce ER.
Chapter Three Coming Soon. Look for it if you dare.
“Between the Lines of Photographs, I’ve Seen The Past; It isn’t Pleasing.”
Chapter One To Be Found Here
Part tree (Pecan) to be found here,
Happier Times For Kris and Rita: