Just My Luck
Caution: not for the faint of stomach
“What do you put in your milkshakes?” Max asked.
We stood at the Super Duper Burgers on Market Street in San Francisco, looking over the menu. Max and I had flown in from New York that morning on a bumpier than usual flight. He was coming to California for his job, so we decided to use the trip as a way for him to meet two of my best friends from graduate school. We’d just spent the afternoon with Shruti and her husband, eating tacos and entertaining their fifteen-month-old son as he nibbled on Al Pastor and sucked on limes. Following a walk through Golden Gate Park, we were now looking for a snack before heading off to bed.
The woman behind the counter at the burger joint seemed confused. “Uh…” She turned around, pointing at the soft serve machine. “We use that and whole milk.”
Max raised an eyebrow at me. “Do you think you can handle that?”
I have a notoriously fickle digestive system, especially when it comes to dairy. And I was already feeling queasy from having to wake up at two in the morning to catch our flight after indulging in shamrock margaritas at Loreley the day prior. Still, I nodded. Max added a twist shake to the order for me, plus something double chocolatey for him, alongside burgers and fries. We ate then settled into our hotel room, falling asleep to The Food That Built America; an episode about how Nabisco transformed mass-produced packaged food with their release of waxed-lined boxes, first used for saltine crackers.
Sadly, I wasn’t awake enough to pick up on the foreshadowing…
As I wrote about last week, I haven’t felt my best since returning from Denver. First I struggled to sleep. Then I developed back aches followed by a cough. I experienced a week and a half of symptoms before finally going to the doctor. The diagnosis: walking pneumonia. Apparently it’s going around... I was prescribed antibiotics (which I did not take) and cough syrup (which didn’t stop the cough but did help me sleep), then went on my way. I didn’t have time to entertain an illness. There was too much to do.
Of course, with my bad luck, whenever I have too much scheduled tends to be precisely the moment my body chooses to breakdown. It happened a few years ago when I got a concussion from slipping on a banana peel in the entrance to Whole Foods just before a Valentine’s Day vacation with Max. It happened last spring after pulling fifteen hour work days in the lead up to visiting London only to catch a cold. As soon as I think to myself that I can’t let it happen, it happens. It’s almost as if having the thought puts an automatic jinx on me that I can’t quite shake.
The next morning, something was off. Not “being in the wrong time zone” off, or “not getting adequate sleep” off. Off like I wasn’t fully in control of my organs. I tried to ignore it as I logged onto Zoom for the weekly production meeting. That tactic became impossible within the hour.
Pain aggressively radiated out from my belly, pushing with it everything I’d consumed within the past forty-eight hours. The shamrock margaritas. The Pollo Asado tacos. The cautionary creamy milkshake. I saw all of it come out as I timed my toilet breaks in between having to speak up on a call. By midday I called my mom, barely able to explain to her what was happening as my body decided wreaking havoc on my large intestine wasn’t enough. It wanted to get my esophagus involved, too. I used my lunchtime to nap then woke up to more of the same. Eventually, I had to do the unthinkable: cancel a meeting with one of my favorite booksellers, Paul Yamazaki at City Lights.
My weak tummy has brought me all sorts of pain over the years, but nothing quite like this. It felt as though I was enduring a war inside myself. And on top of that, I was worried my workaholic tendencies had led to this; to me ruining the trip. If I hadn’t been so dehydrated, I certainly would have cried. I texted Max, asking if he could pick up medication on his way home from the office. He replied with the pleading face emoji and a thumbs up.
By the time Max returned to the hotel room, I’d mustered the energy to shower but became too dizzy to put on clothes, so I’d bundled myself naked under the covers. His stomach at this point had also turned. It had started a few hours earlier, while eating lunch at the office.
As Max sat on the edge of the bed to open the box of Imodium, he chuckled. “You know, on my trip to Cambodia, they called this the Butt Plug Drug,” he said, swallowing the little white tablet.
I laughed, too, and it hurt. I’d pulled a muscle in my back from the force of the puking. “I feel so bad,” I said. “This isn’t how this was supposed to go. We should be having fun.” According to my itinerary, we should’ve been eating dumplings in Chinatown, followed by going to the St. Patrick’s Day street fair. The only green I’d gotten to wear was the bile mixture that erupted out of me earlier. “I’m so sorry. I’m disgusting.”
Max sat on the bed, taking my hand in his. “Babe, it’s not your fault. This is clearly from something we ate.” He squeezed my fingers with a smile. “Besides, can people honestly say they’re in love until they go through tummy troubles together?” I suppose he’s not wrong.
Two days later and both of our stomachs are still a bit off, but the whole experience has taught me a few lessons. The first: maybe what I’ve perceived as bad luck is really just me being too hard on myself; that perhaps I’d feel more fortunate if I stopped tearing myself down and appreciated the things that work out. Sunny days despite rain in the forecast. Extra comfortable beds. People who still love you even if they’ve heard you vomit through the hotel bathroom door. The second is that if you don’t allow yourself a break, your body will take it for you, and you’re guaranteed not to enjoy the results.
It also might be best if I stay away from fast food for a while. At least until a meal can consist of more than salty crackers and ice water…
Rachel’s Weekly Recs:
Georgia Clark’s newsletter Heartbeat is always filled with feel-good recommendations as well as killer writerly advice. This month, she shares her secrets for dealing with plot problems. It always calms me down to know authors on their eighth book can struggle with the same stuff as us aspiring debut writers.
BIG Timmy Turtle is now a part of my home, and words cannot encapsulate how much I love him. Truly the best grumpy cuddle buddy (besides his smaller brother, of course). His tootsies are also the perfect size for wearing baby socks if you’d like to dress him up.
My mom got me this adorable mini Stanley cup, which is amazing for holding a frozen beverage as the weather warms up. Alternatively, it would make an excellent present for anyone with a little one at home.
Hope you feel better soon!