For the second time in our 13 months of dating, Crockett is in the hospital. The first time was arguably my fault, although he gallantly insists that if a man is goaded into early morning trampoline jumping by his bloody mary drinking girlfriend, anything that results is the fault of that man.
This time I claim zero responsibility. Yesterday, we were thinking that perhaps he had food poisoning - his stomach just hurt, all day long. Ages ago I read this book that compared food to sex - as in, we know so little about what we eat, who has touched it, etc, and if we knew that little about our sexual partners we would have all died of STDs by now. Ever since that and the great birthday salmonella incident of 2009, I blame every stomach upset on food poisoning.
However, without getting too graphic, let me say that there were food poisoning type symptoms that he was lacking. We briefly discussed appendicitis and ulcers, but being both non-medical and optimistic, we decided that he'd probably be fine.
This morning he called me at work.
Crockett: "Hi. How is your day going?"
Me: "Eh, could be better. My power was out at the house this morning. This number isn't your cell - where are you calling me from?"
Crockett: "The hospital."
And appendicitis is is. He's through surgery, awake, and this particular hospital has private rooms with flat screen tvs and room service. He's here until tomorrow, and honestly, this room is sorta making me feel like I'm on vacation. So, we're back in the hospital. Fab.