I need a young priest and and old priest

I don't like potty humor. I hate discussions at the dinner table about my two-year old nephew's latest diaper explosions. Hate it. So, I'm giving you an out, a free pass, a fair warning that what I am about to describe is not pretty. It's really too soon for me to write about this, but I believe I'll never be able to return to this, so I am moving ahead with this entry. (Remember the story about my seven-year old self and the breakfast noodles? This is far, far worse.) But, I've decided that it's important for me to write about the bad with the good. After all, the point of this blog is to share all my new experiences I am having here. The parents out there are probably the only one's brave enough to continue reading...

After my pampering at the spa on Friday afternoon, Z and I did a little shopping at Silk Street market, and then we found a new restaurant for dinner. I was so excited once we sat down at a table and looked at the menu, because they had xia long bao! Finally, I had my camera with me at the same time I was dining on the dumplings, so I snapped a picture to share with everyone. A nice European man sitting at the table next to us asked if the dumplings were any good, and I responded emphatically in kind, "Oh, yes! Try the pork and shrimp!" After dinner, we found a little market stall selling lychee nuts. I sampled one, and we bought a bag's worth of the juicy, sweet, fleshy fruit. We stopped at a tea shop, and bought some black tea for me. We hailed a cab, and it was onward home to watch a movie.

Then, it was all a nightmarish blur. (This is your last warning before I share this embarrassing story. This also goes against everything I feel about giving out Too Much Information on social networks status updates. Do I have to hear every detail about your gassy pregnancy?)

My head pounded and my bones ached. I became instantly nauseous. I had heartburn that started in my throat and went to my knees. I had the chills, but I was sweating. At one point I was lying on the cold wood floor in the fetal position because I couldn't find the strength to stand up again. It was light, it was dark. I was vomiting. My legs were sore. I was on the couch. I was on the bed. I was vomiting again, into the toilet, into the trash can, into whatever receptacle was within reach. My teeth hurt. My throat burned. I was gagging on my own thoughts. I was reciting Mandarin in my head over and over and over trying to block out visions of the last four, five, six, seven times I puked. I was on the toilet. I was off the toilet. I was sleeping on the toilet. I was trying to remember not to flush any paper down the toilet for fear of making the situation even worse. My feet were freezing. My stomach cramped, and gurgled, and twisted for 36 hours. I'd whimper and cry. I'd take a sip of Gatorade (that Z traveled the neighborhood to find), and literally two minutes later, I'd throw it right back up. I heaved. I coughed. I made noises only sound engineers for horror movies can create. Have I mentioned before that our toilet in the bedroom is surrounded by glass and a glass door? There's no screen or curtain and it's something we are working on rectifying. It's like I was involved in some sort of twisted piece of performance art about human suffering. The one water cracker, a half-inch in diameter, that took me 30 minutes to eat, took me three seconds after the last bite to expectorate. I have had hangovers that lasted three days. In elementary school, I was once punched directly in the gut by the school bully on the morning bus ride. But this. This...I've never felt so awful, weak, restless and beat up.

And then it was over.

Food poisoning.

I believe it was the dumplings, and I can only hope our European neighbor in the restaurant did not meet the same fate. Z had only one of the eight devilish dough balls (that was my whole dinner, don't judge.). It could have been the lone lychee nut. Z insisted we throw away the rest of them. I agreed without hesitation.

I don't know what kind of lesson I've learned through this experience. I was trying to avoid street food, but it seems that it's the restaurant food that did me in. Z was my hero through it all, though. The man, the sympathy vomiter himself, was brave and kind and cleaned up all of my messes in the past few days. I know it has been no easy task.

I will not be posting any pictures with this entry.