INTRODUCTION
As last summer ended I moved back in with my aunt and uncle. Again I went to some medical specialists concerning my chest, and as you can tell by me traveling to California for a second time, at that point in my life I was not yet sick of living out of a suitcase. Additionally, as you will soon be able to tell, at that point in my life I was also not yet sick of bad and disgusting things happening to me. The last email I sent out was about throwing up. As a warning, I think I should say this email is a bit worse. At least no one can accuse me of holding back though, right?
AN EXCEPTIONALLY USEFUL PARTY TRICK
My second trip to California came about after a doctor actually contacted me through my aunt. He convinced me that flying down from Oregon was worthwhile, believing my chest pain to be a result of swallowing difficulties. Once back to sunshine, palm trees, and smog, I underwent a barium swallow, which is a medical test that involves barium. And swallowing it. Medical barium is a thick, whitish liquid that tastes a bit chalky and happens to show up on x-rays. From images taken while a person is swallowing barium doctors can see how the esophagus is shaped and how well it performs peristalsis. On the upside, a barium swallow is utterly pain free and the whole procedure only takes a couple of minutes. On the downside, a barium swallow involves about a liter of barium, and though it is non-toxic, it is also indigestible. For barium to escape a body it first must traverse the entire digestive tract. And again, it is indigestible.
Following my barium swallow I drank as much waster and ate as much fiber as possible. Then, over the next two days, I eyed the toilet with constant vigilance and eventually my vigilance paid off. About thirty-six hours after being in the hospital my barium made an appearance, solid and completely toilet-bowl white; tired and getting ready for bed, I almost missed it. Once done being amazed that it had not changed color at all, I flushed the barium down, which promptly led to a plugged toilet. Not being a stranger to plugs, I went in search of a plunger, but I could not find one. Unwilling to wake up my aunt and uncle up, and unwilling to go out and buy a plunger, because that would have cost money, I had found myself in a conundrum. After thinking about washing-and-returning schemes for a bit, or simply leaving the toilet as it was, I ultimately settled on a more moral course of action. The action I took, however, was a bit gross.
Once my friend Tyler told me he had a party at his house and during the party someone plugged the toilet. For some reason Tyler did not own a plunger, but luckily, a plumber was at the party. Happy to help, the plumber immediately tackled the toilet with his bare hands, apparently explaining that it was something he did “pretty much everyday.” To end the story, the problem got fixed, though I am going to guess that night the plumber failed to get any numbers. He did, however, succeed in making a roundabout impression on me, because I ended up using his technique. And, honestly, I did not think it was too bad, especially since what I was digging out with my hands was white throughout; I doubt I was touching much more than barium. Afterward I washed thoroughly, my problem was solved, and I did not tell anyone the next day what had happened. My thanks to you, party plumber I have never met.
AND ANOTHER BAD THEATER EXPERIENCE
The last time I saw a “Harry Potter” film I had an allergic reaction to peanuts. This led to me throwing up in the theater, which was unfun. Carrying on the tradition of witchcraft, wizardry, and unpleasantness, right before I went to the midnight premier of the most recent Harry Potter I had a tube shoved up my nose and down into my stomach and left there for twenty-four hours. The tube’s purpose was to measure the pH of my esophagus. Since my barium swallow proved normal, doctors thought perhaps I had acid reflux that had gotten worse since I was in Korea, where the exact same twenty-four hour pH test had been performed a year before. And because I had the test done before, I knew exactly how painful it would be and that I would not be sleeping at a while it was in progress. Thus, I decided I might as well stay up late and watch a film. Not that I remember the film very well.
I remember the most recent “Harry Potter” being pretty boring. Beyond that, however, all of my memories are of pain, because the tube killed my sinuses, made my throat exceptionally dry, and if I moved at all it stabbed the bottom of my stomach. And yes, I know none of that sounds exceptionally bad, but before judging first I would advise you to get a straw, shove it up through your nose until the end of it peeks out the back of your throat, and then leave it in there for just five minutes; I bet you cannot do it. Although that is not to say I do not hope someone tries, because an attempt would make me laugh pretty hard. Also, on the topic of laughing, I think many people at the midnight premier thought I was supposed to be cyborg, especially since the tube coming out of my head was connected to a small, wearable computer. Unlike the witches and wizards around me, I guess I got the genres of fantasy and science fiction mixed up.
CONCLUSION
I had wanted to end this email with a statement along the lines of “for the record, I do not habitually stick my hands inside of toilets.” In coming clean, however, I guess I should also state that once at a party I found myself in a situation similar to the one mentioned earlier, with at least thirty people in the house and nary a plunger to be found. Of course, I washed thoroughly once done, and, of course, I told no one what had happened. Really, my friend’s plumber story taught me more than just a trick about toilets. It also taught me that at parties one ought to not act like a plumber, least everyone will remember you for doing so.
PICTURE
A crevasse, by my aunt and uncle’s house.
