When Good Galls Go Bad
Gall bladders, that is.
A few days before Hugh and I left for Barbados, I experienced a weird attack of pain on my right side. The pain radiated from my ribcage up through my shoulder and into my neck and left me prostrate on the carpet in Hugh’s office. Moving was a feat beyond my capability and, as I writhed in agony, Hugh was helpless to comfort me.
Finally, after about fifteen looong minutes, the pain subsided enough for me to drag myself to bed where, eventually, I was completely recovered. I chalked the episode up to a bad case of gas and called it good.
The day before we flew out of Denver, Hugh and I met my younger sister, Barbie, for dinner. When I described the episode to her, she immediately diagnosed it as a gall bladder attack, a condition with which she is sadly familiar. I didn’t want to believe her, of course, I mean, gall bladder attacks are for like, senior citizens or something, not for healthy youngish women but, I took her diagnosis under advisement and I really paid a lot of attention to what I ate on the island where I thankfully encountered no additional attacks.
I still wasn’t convinced that it had been my gall bladder staging a coupe however so, upon our return home, I consulted Dr. Google and, it would appear that Barbie was right; gall bladder attacks aren’t just for the blue-haired set after all.
I’m still not certain that I actually had an attack myself but, my symptoms certainly did jibe with what Dr. Google would expect to see and, let’s just say; I have been paying due attention to my diet since. God forbid I ever find myself prostrate on the carpet due to my inability to just say no to the fried burrito plate.
In totally different news, this weekend was busy. Shocking.
The Girl played volleyball in a neighboring town and she did a great job. She seems to have a natural athletic ability, no thanks to my portion of her genetic make-up. Unless, athletic ability skips a generation in which case, she can totally thank her grandfather and I am honored to have carried the gene for her.
Yesterday, I whipped up a batch of royal icing and crafted five pine trees out of ice cream cones. The trees are for the Man-Cub’s birthday cake and I am pretty proud of how well they turned out. They need to dry for the next few days and should be rock-hard enough to transport to the cabin where they will be placed on the cake for the party. That is, of course, if the cat doesn’t find them and eat them, first. I do have the weirdest cat on the planet, after all.
Speaking of weird pets, Rowdie is still recovering from his recent ear infection. He has milked his illness for all that it is worth and we are all growing weary of his puppy-dog eyes and the hang-dog expression on his face as he engages in pitiful attempts to score seconds on his meals and snacks. I swear, the next time he does it; I am going to ignore him.
Or, you know, the time after that. For sure.
I mean, for all we know, the extra calories and fat could trigger a doggie version of a gall bladder attack and we can't have that.