I’ve fallen from the realm of noms because I had a bit of an emergency, you see.
Last Tuesday, I rushed myself to the hospital - and by that I mean Ecua Cab ushered me to the ER at 4:30 in the morning - because I was having raging stomach pains. Raging stomach pains I mistook for gas, or, rather, wished were gas. I thought I, Dr. Nom Noms, could rectify the situation with Gas X and a heating pad. In my world, there’s nothing a good old pop of the Gas X cannot solve.
Bad idea. Dare I say, one of the worst ideas I ever had.
Worse than the time I thought it would be a good idea to indulge in a banana eating contest with my office mates. I ate 2 bananas in 60 seconds, and the extreme banana consumption resulted in a terrible sickness. I hate bananas, with the exception of loving them and wanting to sleep with them when they are speckled with walnuts and contained in muffin form.
I diagnosed myself with gas because I can have a tendency to be gassy.
Heretofore no man will ever want to date me.
Little did I know I was really suffering from acute appendicitis.
Note: when you experience thrashing pains in your abdomen that feel similar to what one can only compare to daggers being dug into your belly - it’s probably not gas. My surgeon, Dr. Morton, is originally from Ghana but studied medicine in England, so he had the most fantastic combination of accent, said: you’re lucky you didn’t cause your appendix to rupture with the Gas X and heating pads. Your appendix was severely inflamed already.
Dr. Nom Noms was so shut down.
The emergency appendectomy landed me in the hospital for 3 days. I was sharing a room with 3 other ladies. 2 knee replacements and 1 hip replacement. They were all the loudest and most demanding bunch of broads I’ve ever shared company with. Loud as hell, telling the nurses how to do their jobs, demanding sponge baths and suppositories. I must’ve seemed like a dream to the nurses on duty. I only rang my call bell for more morphine. These women made my life miserable because I didn’t sleep, and I was cranky, combative and irate for 3 days straight - but shit - I hope I’m telling people who’s the boss when I’m 75.
While at the hospital, I was on a strict diet of IV bags, morphine and dilaudid. Not even my dr’s charming accent could get me to eat hospital spaghetti and meatballs and chicken in some creamy yellow sauce. Were they trying to make me even more sick? The morning I received a cheese danish, I smiled. I thought about it. I took a few bites. I couldn’t finish. I couldn’t eat. Not having an appetite is depressing - as is experiencing pain while laughing. I believed God was punishing me for years of using random people as the subject to my comedy and twisted mind and, furthermore, continuing the torment by surrounding me with repulsing food.
I’m finally home and on bed rest, with the exception of the daily stroll I’m supposed to take around the block. I’m wearing an abdominal guard. That’s right, a giant, sexy, 16” wide strap that holds in my belly. I’m 10 lbs heavier than I was when I went into the hospital - and from the likes of the giant size of my panza, if I didn’t know any better, I would think I was pregnant.
If I gain any weight in this shit life, I want it to be from eating bacon cheeseburgers, fries, apple crumb pie, muffins and a lack of exercise. I can go on with my list of foods that are ok to make me fat - which include doughnuts, pizza, Little Debbie Nutty Bars and milkshakes. Appendectomy, anesthesia, pain killers, gas, not pooping and no appetite is, certifiably, the worst way - ever - to put on weight.
Making noms and eating anything worth talking about has come to a screeching halt - which is thoroughly depressing. Channon, Susana and Nancy have been on nurse duty, which includes helping me in and out of the shower, watching me pee with the door open, making sure my greasy hair is tidy and out of my face, administering pain killers and feeding me. Who would ever think I needed someone to make sure I eat, says the girl who used to sneak spoonfuls of peanut butter or heaps of moms gravy when everyone went to bed at night?
Channon cooked in my kitchen and she didn’t even make a mess. My lady friends know I’m OCD about the pristine nature my apartment must be in at all times. I can’t be left alone when I’m all stitched up and high on pain killers because then I morph into Super High-Woman and think it’s ok to cook and get on my belly to clean floors, like the time I went in for back and rack surgery and Stef found me floundering in a compromising squatting position in an effort to spot clean my floor. Hair turban on my head, leopard robe, Snoopy slippers, paper towel and Fantastic.
I have problems, and they’re serious.
Channy cooked and graced my table with some incredible goat cheese, spinach and mushroom omelets. She made Pillsbury Cinnamon Buns for the grand finale. The good news, my appetite is pretty much back. I will not be cooking or eating anything beyond Kraft Mac and Cheese, Ramen, sweet potatoes or spinach; and I’m enjoying this time riding dirty with my food options. Maybe I’ll add in some tater tots for a bit more variety?
When will I crave bacon, red sauce, suckling pig, rack of lamb or hamburgers again?
I hope it’s not too long.
As I stare at my four walls, I’m enjoying the litter of cards and flowers I received from family and friends. I’m slowly nomming through the Edible Arrangement sent to me by my caring family who calls me so much it borders on harassment. But I love them, truly, madly and deeply.
Today I received a package from my Aunt Deb and Uncle Al, which included a beautiful new set of measuring spoons. I can’t wait to use them and make something nommy when I’m able to bend and lift up bags of flour and sugar again.
Thankful my daily weight was not posted outside of my hospital room door.
Really Mt. Sinai Queens, you must be kidding me …
Chicken in slime, I’d rather starve. Thankfully, Channon smuggled me in some wonton soup and Nan & Su brought me crackers and cookies.
The Edible Arrangement from Mom, Dad, Tom, Lou and Sister In-Law Tania. I hope it aids me back to regularity.
Flowers from Jess. The F train to the Q69 didn’t stop my Latina Lover from coming all the way to Queens.
A beautiful autumnal flower arrangement from Aunt Deb, Uncle Al, Cousin Danielle and Jon.
Channy’s killer omelet.
Channy buns.
Beautiful new measuring spoons that will be put to use soon (serious nom making to come).
