Nothing was out of the ordinary the first night. The second night, we went to a nice place that served an array of foods. Now, normally I really don't eat fish -- I just don't like the flavor or texture for the most part. However, once every few years I get a hair up my butt and order fish. And this night, I had a craving for some halibut.
This halibut would be my undoing.
We had come during a fairly mild winter for Iowa; the temperature during the day was in the high 40's or low 50's. It wasn't too dissimilar from Washington weather. On this night, there was a Midwest electrical storm blowing through. After dinner we headed back to the condo we were staying and I decided to watch the storm from the back porch window.
The storm was marvelous to see -- something we rarely get in Washington. Only once do I ever remember seeing anything even close to this spectacular. I was drinking some coffee while watching the storm; the lightning was great. How it lit everything up was amazing. I felt safe and secure in the comfort of the condo. A couple of hours had passed since dinner and I felt the urge to hit the head. Nothing major, just my normal after dinner/before bed poop.
I finished my coffee and started to look for something to read while doing my constitutional. My bowels started to give me short, stabbing pains. I flipped through a couple of magazines that were already there, trying to find something to spark my interest. This was over the course of just a few minutes; and each minute that passed the pains became worse and worse -- to the point I didn't even care about what I was going to read. I grabbed a copy of National Geographic and made my way very quickly to the place that would soon become my own personal hell.
The pains had become so great I doubled over with each spike in my bowels. I pulled The Man Move -- and none to soon. There was a small turd that had been acting like a cork, holding everything back, and when it busted, a thick goo poured out of my rectum with the force and the fury to rival any sandblaster. This liquid had a gritty texture to it, similar to having sand in your pants at the ocean. I began to tear up from the pain.
Not once during this five-minute ordeal did I even pick up the magazine.
Whatever was in me wanted out, and I was doing the best I could to oblige. I don't recall moaning and whimpering, but my aunt came to the door and asked me if everything was okay.
I told her I would be fine. After what seemed like hours (though it was only about fifteen minutes), I cleaned up, flushed, wearily walked out to the couch, and literally fell down and lay there, exhausted.
Within minutes, the pain was back. I think it had rallied all the other nerves in my body to revolt and provide me with nothing but pain. A mad dash to the bathroom and another torrent of liquid shit. This time, however, there was no texture -- it was just pain and a greasy, water-like substance flowing out of my anus. At this point the pain was so bad, and I was so exhausted, that the tears were flowing. I had never experienced bowel pain like this before; honestly, I had never experienced any pain like this, ever. I've broken many bones. I've even had a couple of compound fractures. But I would have eagerly traded this pain for the time I broke my femur.
Another ten minutes of clean up, and another a slow tread to the couch. I lay there motionless, trying to move as little as possible. My aunt brought me some water, which I was able to choke down. The sliding back door was open, as were a couple of windows; the breeze was cool and refreshing. My senses starting to come back to me, including my sense of smell; and then I realized why the windows were open. The septic smell that I had unleashed in the bathroom was thick in the air throughout the condo. I apologized to my aunt, who took it in stride -- having raised five children, she is a true champ.
After another hour, I was running back into the bathroom with the pain even stronger than it was last time. This time what came out of my rectum was partially off-colored water. It was warm, but not burning. I looked in the toilet before wiping and noticed that it looked mostly like a dirty cup of water, with only a few particles suspended in it. The pain didn't go away this time, though; my bowels felt like the Chinese army was marching in them, single-file with tank support, while they were being shelled by an unknown enemy force. Three hours after this started I passed out in my bed. I was exhausted, a little embarrassed, and still in some pain.
When I awoke the next morning, there was no pain. There was no more urge to poop. Nothing. It was as if it never happened.
My aunt later told me she had been seriously thinking about calling the paramedics because she became so concerned about the sounds I was making while I slept. I surmised I ate some bad fish, and kicked myself in my own ass (fairly gently, as the night before it had taken a brutal beating) for thinking how retarded I was to eat fish that comes from an ocean in Iowa.
It would be almost five years before I ate any fish again.
Two days later, my aunt had found the house she wanted, and we were on a plane home. This was the second time I had flown somewhere with my aunt and gotten food poisoning. I vowed to never travel with her again -- and to this day, I have kept my promise. I'll post my Hawaii story another day.