I went to the gastroenterologist.

If you’ve been following along carefully, as I’m sure you have, you’ll recall that mid-26.2, I was halted by a sudden urgency to vomit.  And 18 miles into my second marathon, I left my DNA all over someone’s lawn somewhere between Elon and Greensboro North Carolina.

I’d been experiencing some GI discomfort since I got food poisoning in September, and my GP’s explanation just wasn’t cutting it for me.  Plus, anytime I ate anything, or even looked at food the wrong way, I’d wake up in horrid pain.

So, since I had the appointment, I didn’t have work, so I dressed extra cute for the occasion.  I so rarely look good in public due to the fact that I work out, so when I do dress like a regular human being, I really take it up a notch.  Even put on the Spanx under.   I felt so cute, in fact, that I took the requisite bathroom selfie for my viewing pleasure later on.

Look at the sheer volume of running shoe that is behind my head…

“Work, honey!” I said to myself.

And off to the stomach Dr. I went.

Dr. H: Tell me what’s going on!

Me:  [I describe my symptoms to him] Sir, I also threw up in the middle of a marathon.

Dr. H: A marathon?! What is that, like twenty…whatever.  That’s extreme.

Me:  Well, bye, I never usually throw up when I run so…

Dr. H:  [points at the remnants of my green breakfast smoothie] What is that?  Does that bother your stomach? I bet! [I start to kind of wiggle from buttcheek to cheek here]. Do you drink alcohol?  [I wince right over here].  How about gum…do you chew gum? [I start to fidget in my seat, and bounce my ballet-flatted foot around]. How about coffee.  You drink coffee?

Then, being the brilliant, educated young woman I am, I have to explain to Dr. H that I wore Spanx to a gastroenterology appointment, and that he’ll have to excuse me while I wrangle my body out of the giant compression sock I sewed myself into that morning in order for him to you know, examine me.  I thought we were just gonna chat!  He looked really confused.  I’m sorry, dude.  I wasn’t thinking.

His verdict?

It’s acid-related (duh), either an ulcer, or some lovely hydrocholoric acid splashing to and fro in my stomach.  So the grand list of things I’m no longer allowed to do.

  • No ibuprofen.  I told you I just finished my 2nd marathon, right?
  • No gum. ::blank stare::
  • No more smoking cigarettes.  Okay, doc, gotcha covered. No prob.  That’s the one thing I know I don’t do.
  • Citrus is bad.  So that smoothie I drink every morning?  With pulpy delicious OJ as the base?  Apparently was just tearing my stomach to shreds.
  • No coffee/caffeine.  Is this a joke?  This is a joke, right?
  • No kombucha. My will to live is dwindling.
  • No mint and chocolate.  The only candy I eat is York Peppermint Patties.
  • No Italian, tomato-y food.  
  • No alcohol.  Is beer included in that?

And the kicker?  I have to get scoped the day before Thanksgiving, to see how bad my stomach lining is.  But on the plus side, it’s a pretty simple procedure, and they’ll IV me up with the same stuff that Michael Jackson used to use to get to sleep.  Lucky for me, Dr. Conrad Murray doesn’t have his medical license, so I think I should be decent on, you know, living and stuff.

Alright guys, I’ve already done really awesome, I’m chewing a piece of Eclipse as I write this, and I just slammed a glass of ice water with lemon as a garnish.  Jesus take the wheel.

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