The Diagnosis

     Well, as my readers will be happy to learn, it turns out that I have neither stomach cancer nor an unplanned pregnancy (Huzzah!)

     While I was waiting for the Cursed Time of November to pass (see previous posts if you feel lost), I consulted many less-than-valid medical sources for advice.  This is admittedly a very stupid thing to do, but I am poor and without many options.  The results?  Scary. WebMD.com, a random nurse, my psychic wiccan grandmother, my child-of-a-nurse mother, and a pharmacist picked at random all swore that the only explanation for my prolonged upset tummy was that my gallbladder was being naughty. Now I have never hated an organ before but at that moment I hated mine with the fire of a thousand suns.  But probably just yellow suns though, not the really hot blue stars which- no, never mind.  Focus!

       I tend toward the anthropomorphic, so my attempt at fixing the problem was to soundly and unabashedly curse my gallbladder aloud, threatening it with pain and suffering if it did not shape up.  Since I was not really clear on where the gallbladder is located exactly or even what the hell it does, that was about all I could do on my end.  My dear sainted mother however studied up on what I should and should not be eating, even if it meant that Christmas (a holiday devoted to gifts and food and not much else) would have to be totally ruined.  Naturally, because this is how my life works, the diet for a happy gallbladder meant no sugar, no alcohol, no chocolate, no butter, no milk, no white flour, no pasta, or pretty much anything else that makes the holidays livable.  Instead I spent weeks trying out exciting new ways to incorporate radishes, turmeric, and kale into my diet.  (Note: a kale, apple, cinnamon, ginger, flax seed, ice, and soymilk shake is not actually half bad, even if it is a bit chewy out of the blender.)  This new and admittedly dramatically healthier regime replaced my previous diet of a hand full of peppermint flavored Tums every half hour, so I snatched at it and tried to make raw cabbage as festive and appealing as possible.  As it turns out, it is not possible to make cabbage festive.

     Then, just two days before Christmas Eve, I was saved by my new 12-year-old doctor.  Normally I would not trust the medical advice of a 5’2” woman sporting a hugely oversized sweatshirt decorated with an image of teddy bears wearing Christmas sweaters, who still has bangs over her forehead, and just wants to be called by her first name “Katy”, but she happened to give the medical advice that I wanted to hear.  It turns out that none of my organs were attempting to succeed from the union, as it were.  Instead, I managed to earn myself an actual ulcer- thus proving that the pressure of filling out grad school applications combined with having to move in with relatives in the middle of East Jesus Nowhere is a dangerous combination that can actually be hazardous to one’s health!  I was glad to know this because now I can legitimately complain about such things with medical proof to back up the incessant whining.  Also this means that people can stop telling me their nightmare gallbladder removal stories.  For heaven’s sake people, why would you ever tell someone that?!?

     Anyway, my magic solution is to pop two massive horse pills a day and then I can eat whatever the hell I want.  I have mixed emotions about this.  Well this week anyway- last week I pretty much ate my weight in flakey pastry, pie, and spiral baked hams without the slightest qualm.  But as we all know, January is Fatty Awareness Month and once I recovered from my flirtation with diabetes and alcoholism I began to regret the neat solution to my total lack of self control.  You see, I have tried my entire life to develop an eating disorder but so far I just haven’t had the will power to see it through.  I actually used to be mad that it was my dad who was my screwed up parent because girls with daddy issues just become promiscuous where as it’s the girls with the mommy issues who starve themselves to pretty.  Curse you Mother, for being awesome!  I remember one health class in Jr. High when my teacher was showing us the consequences of drug use.  She put up a picture of a normal looking woman in her 30s of about average weight.  Then she showed us a picture of that woman after just three months of crystal meth use.   She looked like one of those cows in the Amazon that has been skeletonized by a school of piranha.  Sure she had sores on her face and her teeth and hair were coming out, but that woman was coat rack thin in a matter of weeks!  To her despair, my poor health teacher saw my eyes lock with that of my friend sitting across the room, dawning hope shining from both our bright adolescent faces.  She nearly went into an apoplectic fit for a moment and then started feverishly lecturing (mostly to me) on the addiction rates, long term health problems, and emotional damage that come from drug use.  It was amusing to watch a long time educator of young minds suddenly realize that she just gave two 14-year-old girls the idea to become meth addicts.  Fortunately for her therapy bills, my neighborhood only had heroin addicts and I wasn’t too keen on the needles. Hmm…  I seemed to have deviated from my point… OH YES!

       So now I need a method to trick my body into eating healthy and getting skinny without removing my organs or turning to hard drugs.  Till now I tended to use food as my go-to reward system but I think it would prove counterproductive in this case (Example: you just lost 8 lbs.!  Congratulations, you get to bring home a key lime pie!).  So now what?  Dangerous back-alley surgery?  Hiring a full-time Food Slapper to literally knock things out of my hand before I put it into my mouth?  Exercise?  Oh, the horror!