The World According to Barf
September 2nd, 2009 | by admin |
Hangovers I have had. But that morning, it broke all records for raw pain. I’m one day out of hospital and several pints to the worse in the pub after the ambulance releases me back into the wild. You have these great Disney pictures in your mind — Bambi has been rescued from a fate worse than death by some cute kids who nurse him back to health (giving him Acomplia to help him quit whatever he’s on). Then, with tears in their eyes, they let him go. The shot tracks Bambi just out-of-sight behind a bush where a lion tears it to bits (what a waste of good Acomplia unless it cures the lion of its addiction to Bambis). Well that’s how I feel. That night of joy in the pub, welcoming home the conquering hero, has left me on a rack of pain. Everything that could hurt, hurts big time.My lion is my life in the pub with friends who live for the moment without thinking about consequences. I’ve just had a heart attack which left me lying on my back in hospital for days with the chance to think about how my life has gone down the toilet. But, within minutes of coming home, I’m chugging beer, cigarette in my hand again, and pie and chips swilling around inside the stomach. Everything that was supposedly off-limits was instantly back in play. No Acomplia inside me to help me beat the cravings. The result? I can’t think for the pain in my head. My eyes are gummed together. My mouth feels like someone’s already been sick in there. The wheezing from my lungs suggests I’m still alive, but only just. My chest feels like its on fire — there seems to be a little seepage of blood under the bandages — hopefully the operation scars haven’t opened too much. The news from the stomach is that I may part company with some of last night’s celebration sometime soon. And everything else just hurts.
Dimly, I recall the faint whiff of hope I had when in hospital. The promise of this Acomplia was supposed to keep me safe. A juju to keep the evil spirits away. The stories from the clinical trials were more than encouraging. Acomplia was a new kind of magic bullet — kill two birds with one stone. Enhance your weight loss program and deal with the smoking. Bang! All done and dusted! I may also be an alcoholic in the making, but let’s not go there for now. Three’s too much for one bullet.
So I gently prise open the eyes and start pretending I’m going to be able to get out of bed before bladder and stomach release their contents. Where’s my friendly team of nurses with bed pans and encouraging smiles when you need them. It really is remarkable how much they are a part of the cure. Their mixture of hard-working fun lifts flagging spirits. Even the talking heads with their well-meaning advice about how I’ve got to cut down on the beer, quit smoking and eat better are a break in the monotony of recovery. And always, this talk about Acomplia. This next six or seven weeks is just going to fly by — then you’ll be cured. What bullshit! But when you hear it, you grab on to it like you’re a drowning man. Well, drowning is the wrong word for a heart attack victim. But it’s a lifeline. Something to give you a sense you might live through all this.
I’m just starting to plan a trip to the doctor to get the prescription for Acomplia and have it at the chemists ready waiting for the day, when I suddenly realise that everything’s coming to a head (and all other parts of the anatomy). The race was on — the incentive for a man living on his own to hustle no matter what the pain is that it’s a real pain to clean vomit (and worse) off a carpet.
By: Jimmy Mehta
Dimly, I recall the faint whiff of hope I had when in hospital. The promise of this Acomplia was supposed to keep me safe. A juju to keep the evil spirits away. The stories from the clinical trials were more than encouraging. Acomplia was a new kind of magic bullet — kill two birds with one stone. Enhance your weight loss program and deal with the smoking. Bang! All done and dusted! I may also be an alcoholic in the making, but let’s not go there for now. Three’s too much for one bullet.
So I gently prise open the eyes and start pretending I’m going to be able to get out of bed before bladder and stomach release their contents. Where’s my friendly team of nurses with bed pans and encouraging smiles when you need them. It really is remarkable how much they are a part of the cure. Their mixture of hard-working fun lifts flagging spirits. Even the talking heads with their well-meaning advice about how I’ve got to cut down on the beer, quit smoking and eat better are a break in the monotony of recovery. And always, this talk about Acomplia. This next six or seven weeks is just going to fly by — then you’ll be cured. What bullshit! But when you hear it, you grab on to it like you’re a drowning man. Well, drowning is the wrong word for a heart attack victim. But it’s a lifeline. Something to give you a sense you might live through all this.
I’m just starting to plan a trip to the doctor to get the prescription for Acomplia and have it at the chemists ready waiting for the day, when I suddenly realise that everything’s coming to a head (and all other parts of the anatomy). The race was on — the incentive for a man living on his own to hustle no matter what the pain is that it’s a real pain to clean vomit (and worse) off a carpet.
By: Jimmy Mehta