The other day someone mentioned the name of a little French restaurant on Southside, and am instantly flashed to me barfing lobster bisque onto our driveway after dinner there two Februarys ago. It wasn't the food that made me sick (or the wine); it was a stomach computer virus my daughter brought home at school. And it occurred to hit just like we arrived home that night.

Recalling the horror of it all made me personally ponder just how long it had been since I'd organised a stomach bug. Two years exactly. "Huh, " I think. "I wonder if I actually can live a good long life without ever having one again? I guess I can do it. inch

That very night after my husband clicked off the special post-Super Pan episode of House, We had trouble falling sleeping. Something just wasn't right. bathmate before and after I tossed around like flipper in search of a magical portal to a peaceful, sleepy place. Images of Dr . Homes diagnosis and those image shots they show of what's happening inside the body flickered as We squirmed, and my mind swelled with drama. I felt hot and sick.

Maybe I had the same thing the lady House dealt with had. I don't bear in mind what it was called, but House was your only one who could save her. Where would I find a real-life Dr . House to fix me? I am hoping he'd be nicer in my experience than the TV Dr. House. "I don't feel good! " I actually blurted out loud. "I'm sorry, Honey. Please be still, " whispered my husband.

Three hours later, I was yanked from my covers and drawn into the bathroom by an invisible beast. Exactly what happened after that is merely way too revolting to share. But I will say there was two sides to the storyplot, if you catch my drift. It was bad. Real bad.

When round-one was over-I knew there would be more-I gripped the counter for balance and squinted to the reflection at my lifeless manifestation. My skin was the color and texture of iceberg lettuce. I wiped away my sweat mustache, splashed water on my face and turned to head back to mattress. As I reached up a chilly clam-hand to switch out the light, We spotted the digital weighing scales on the floor underneath the towel rack. I couldn't stop myself, I actually had to do it. I could barely stand, but I had formed to. One point five pounds lighter than today. So cool, We weakly glowed as We harmoniously questioned my sanity and cringed at my vanity. Dr. House would not be amused.

I slept for two more hours before the next vomit/ria fest, and then again for an hour, until I struck the dreaded every-thirty-minutes tag. That's when I stopped trying to swing a deal with God and started begging for a cold and cozy grave. At some point, We managed to jerk down a towel for a blanket before slipping unconscious.

Almost violently, I broken into a dream where I was making out with Dr. House. He had coffee breath and tense lips. He appeared frustrated and not at all into it. But, for some reason, I totally was. Just like he managed to drive me off him with his cane, and We was suggesting we bookbag to Prague, my own eyes thrown open.

I was drenched in sweat and drooling onto the shag bathmat. About twenty minutes later, I had labored my way to my feet and peeled the bathmat from my body. Then, with way more effort than should be medically permitted in my state, We stepped on the weighing scales, for the fourth or fifth time. I carefully resisted the primal instinct to brace myself. Holding on to something would affect the scales' reading.