I woke up in pain on Saturday. I immediately recognized the lower abdominal pain as something I'd experienced before. I knew, even though I hoped I was wrong, that it was diverticulitis again. My plan for dealing with the pain was to ignore it until it went away. That's my M.O. My first course of treatment for anything that ails me is ignore it. It usually sometimes pretty much never works. But I do it anyway.
This morning, I had visions of my large intestine becoming so infected that I would need to be hospitalized. At first I thought it would be a nightmare, but that gave way to fantasy about lying in bed all day with people bringing me my meals while I did nothing more strenuous than change the channel on the TV. I'm sure the nurse would never run into my room, shrieking that everyone had eaten all the macaroni and cheese, forcing her to declare her undying hatred of her brothers and sisters. I snapped back to reality when I remembered that I had no one to take over for me. No one could step in and take care of my kids and everything else while I lounged in the hospital. And really, there is no resting or relaxing in a hospital. Ever. Between the annoying roommates, noisy hallways, announcements over the PA system, and the nurses who must take your vitals every twenty minutes, it'd be easier to get rest lying in the middle of the Kennedy during rush hour.
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