Riding the Diarrheal Roller Coaster.

I’ll spare you the pictures.

I’ll spare you the pictures of me sprinting across the hospital parking lot for MR.GREENE. on Monday morning and driving wildly home, panting and squeezing my cheeks together. The pictures of me sweating and cursing the world and the world’s drivers to get the hell out of my way. I’ll spare you the pictures of me slamming into the driveway and leaving MR.GREENE. running with the driver side door flopping open while I body rolled under the too-slow-rising garage door and pawed past the eagerly excited Cutter and Tug, shins and ankles tangling with their happily yappiness in my mad rush to the porcelain goddess.

I’ll spare you the pictures of me riding the stomach bug Diarrheal Roller Coaster- it ain’t fun and, trust me, you only want ONE ticket.

So yeah.

I was sick.

There were times in those dark thirty-six hours when I lay semi-awake or semi-conscious and completely incontinent, listening to the hurricane in my belly that I questioned existence and whether I wanted a place in it.

Miss Carol did all the chores and Cutter and Tug nuzzled and I gritted my teeth and trotted to Ms. Toilet every hour or so. She’s the best. Miss Carol I mean, not Ms. Toilet.

And then, as suddenly as the tempest had begun, it blew through. Just like that.

I awoke this morning to a bright new sparkly wonderful world. There were still some clouds on the distant horizon of oceandoggyville, but birds were singing gaily in the rain. Children’s laughter sprinkled over me and the clouds were solder edged and raindrops were crystalline and twinkled off MR.GREENE.’s hood while he drove me back to work.

Man, does it feel good to be back.