My tummy hurts.

I don’t feel good.

Last night, I ate like a pig, and I’ve had a stomach ache ever since.

When I was young, I would have berated myself for having no self control and sworn off Chinese food for a week or two.

Not now.

The older I get, the less I expect to get better.

There are no simple tummy aches. Could I have set off an intestinal obstruction? Did those crispy boneless ribs cause a perforation? Is this the start of a septic episode, or even peritonitis?

In my youth, I would have taken my fathers Merck Manual, and spent blissful hours researching every possible gastric malady. Of course, I would have had to stop and look up every other word, so it would have taken forever. By the time I diagnosed myself, I would have gotten better.

Now, of course, we have the internet. In clear layman’s language, it will give you ten fatal diagnoses faster than you can finish a spasm.

I may be dying.

I’m not sick enough to go to a doctor, mind you, but I’m definitely at death’s door.

If I survive, and I don’t expect to, I will not eat boneless spare ribs until I’ve made a valid will. And cleaned the house; God forbid I should leave a mess for the kids.

I would have liked to see grandchildren.

And I never ate my egg roll.

4 thoughts on “My tummy hurts.

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