Shouldn’t that make for “The Sexorcist”?

Alas, no. It merely describes the state of Food Poisoning in which I had found myself last week, barely any sex appeal in sight. I know! A tad disappointing, right?

On the other hand, I find any story that mentions hours of nausea and projectile vomiting may be worth a peek. Especially if it’s something new to my realm of experience, and now that I’ve made it through the worst part — I have questions!! I feel like bonding!! Time to testify!! Like, has anyone else experienced such a singularly convulsive episode of mind-shattering pain and remained conscious throughout the ordeal? And NOT wound up with a newborn infant on the other side?

Hey, it could have been worse, but I will do myself the honor of calling it An Ordeal. Not to get political or anything, but I felt like hell, I felt like death, I had no control over my body, I was riddled with poison, I felt like the Afghanistan War.

It was not pleasant.

It also explains the delay of emails and videos and photos and things that were supposed to go up last week — just so y’all know that Tora Brava doesn’t mess around.

I don’t regret being conscious from the first dizzying wretch into the porcelain beast to the last. I’m no slouch, I can take the punches — I just tend to think the differentiating degrees of consciousness were at times more precious than others.

The curious thing about all this is that it didn’t happen sooner. I am on the one side, a snob about food, and on the other side, completely obsessed with food. I’ve tried lots of things cooked or not quite dead and still throbbing, mostly edibles in my opinion. And I am not alone in my scope of foodie exoneration!! But I have never experienced such a violent episode of personal bodily revenge before in my life. And oysters have been on my radar (and palate!) ever since… God, I don’t know. Since before I lost my virginity!! And this is probably a better story than that was.

Tales abound of me going out to various meals with a group and afterward seeing each one of my companions fall down one by one like dominoes as I remain standing, looking around and thinking, “Why me, God? Why do I MYSELF not fall down, puke and shiver in pain like the others?!” Thankfully I have been blessed with a stellar constitution of iron. So I must conclude that if something were to take me down, it would be something of gastric significance. Like radium?? No, but something like that.

I’ve always been a bit crazy for fresh oysters on the half shell. It’s one of my favorite things in the world when it’s so good, and my least favorite when it’s bad. The ones I had that day tasted sooo good. But there was mischief afoot.

Twelve hours later, after meeting up with bandmates and reveling over beer and disco fries, I found myself indoors with a curious and sneaky feeling. And then –

The bug wasted no time. From there it was eight of the Most Inglourious Hours of My Life. First there was the vomiting. Then I was vomiting with added strength and direction, all involuntary of course, which then progressed to the point where I was wretching convulsively into a garbage can near the bed because the Porcelain Beast In Its Inviolate Chamber was miles and miles away. Any food to expel was long gone. It was as if my body was trying to rid itself of all its BILE. A drop of fresh, clear H20 on the tongue would send shivers of pain and ICE PICKS through all my nerve synapses and thousands of knives chopping at my intestines, only to send armies of convulsions to vomit up that same drop of said water and banish it from the fortress of my body catagorically. The fortress was under attack — from within.

In trying to heal, the body undergoes a process. We never know how long it will go, but the pain is often part and parcel. I knew I had to speed up the process, but how?? I had no control over my body. Every muscle, tendon and nerve in my body was screaming pain from the intermittent convulsions of wretching and poison. I knew I had to drink fresh water and cleanse. I was dehydrating dangerously. This was not rocket surgery. I knew I had to DO something.

Thankfully, I was not alone. My guardian angel was there to watch over me the whole time, making sure I didn’t pass out or fall into the pit, mightily bringing me blankets and encouraging me to take the anti-nausea medicine with gentle verve. It was an over-the-counter thing with a name that sounded like Immodium but wasn’t.* I told him I preferred to forego the emergency room as an option (I’m still waiting for my public health option, mkay??) and downed the cherry-flavored med. A militia of convulsive wretching later, and the freshly-imbibed syrup was sitting in the can.

“You gotta try it again, it will help you.”

“…Okay…but little bitty sips this time.”

I was surprised that I liked the syrupy cherry flavor. It tasted like something real. I enjoyed the syrup cut with sips of fresh filtered water. Mmmm WATER…. But I didn’t like the daunting amount that was left to suck down little by little that filled the little teeny plastic cup, the kind that’s a familiar partner to most over-the-counter cough medicine. The battle cry would sound throughout my synapses and I braced myself for the wretching to begin all over again. Degrees of consciousness came and went. I remember thinking raspberries, big juicy summertime raspberries, and then the next moment I was highly doubting that I’d ever have lunch ever again. The idea of ever needing food again just didn’t add up. But RASPBERRIES…

It was a cycle that I kept at. Bits of medicine, slurps of water, lying on the floor looking for a comfortable position to rest, then the militia attack on body and sanity. And then…what’s that? I felt my extremities, my hands and feet, curling down at the wrists and ankles in a sudden onset of pins and needles. My guardian angel tried to hide his alarm at the strange phenomenon.

“Maybe it’s time we take you to the emergency room.”

“No, it’s okay. Imma be okay. It’s finally wearing off.”

I knew this. Perhaps not officially backed by science, but it was a bit of bodily knowledge I had accrued from my days of clubbing and experimenting with drugs. I remember everything too, because it was all so physical and emotional to me. I did the drugs out of the spirit of curiosity, exploration and fun rather than any real desire to escape myself.

When you’re coming off certain drugs, many of them share similar coming-down effects. And this numbing and curling of my extremities was a signal to me that the bug was losing its hold on the body, we were past the tipping point and the fortress was being delivered back to its autonomy once again. I will not deny that it’s a damn freaky thing to experience the “coming down” and often uncomfortable, sickening and painful at that — but jeez. Here I was at the end of the worst part of The Ordeal. I saw the light at the end of the tunnel, and it was beautiful. The pins and needles cleared. The reinforcements that were delayed from the heat of battle had finally arrived. I was safe. And what a time it was. What a war.

In my days since, at the advice of the Doc, I’ve spent a good portion in my peaceful cocoon actively doing as little as is humanly possible. Good point, as I’ve found recovery to take a bit longer than I’d imagined, and a mini-vay-kay was just the thing I needed.

And no oysters on the menu…for now.  *winks*

** The anti-nausea medicine was called Ematrol.