Miscellaneous, etc.

Valentine’s day was last week. Did you hear?

Yeah, yeah. There’s all kinds of debate about whether it’s a worthy holiday or not. I know for a lot of people it’s lame to make a fuss, but for me Valentine’s Day has been a perpetual excuse for making a big hoopla. I’m just as happy being romantic on a random Wednesday, but it just helps me out when every store, restaurant, song on the radio and movie on television is there to back me up.

This year, after much helpless floundering with unanswered telephones and aborted plans, my girlfriend kindly coached me to reserve at a local seafood restaurant, Pure Spirits Oyster House and Grill. I had never eaten oysters before, and in my (admittedly recent) spirit of dietary adventure, I was game to give it a try.

What’s the worst that could happen?¹

The night was splendid, and mushy, and fun. For the first time ever in my life, I got a Valentine’s Day card that actually quoted honest-to-God poetry, plus a gift that actually anticipated something I’d never even mentioned before. We ate oysters from France, Prince Edward Island, and British Columbia. She dined on a whole lobster; I contented myself with merely part of an ocean fish. We drank wine, she ate a glass of berries and I polished off a tart made of dates and liquor.

Oh, what a meal. The rest of the night was fun, too, trying not to destroy our ankles as we sprinted from the restaurant to the car, desperate to retain some kind of warmth. We talked and joked and romanticized in the car, and we curled up together on her couch as long as two people reasonably can on a school night.

Thursday was cool. Y’know, date afterglow, happy stories, that kind of thing.

Friday afternoon, I heard from Margo. It was a short series of informational bursts, interrupted by bouts of discomfort: “Sudden stomach lurching. Lots of nausea. Plenty of problems since then. Which way? I don’t know, both ways. What are you asking me? Don’t confuse this for me, I’m trying to concentrate.”

Friday night, I went home feeling concerned. I’d come down with a cold in the middle of the week, so I was ready to curl up and feel sorry for myself as well. I got a jump on the curling up when, apparently, someone shot me in the stomach with a cannon.

I will spare you the details from here, thumbing through the “rapid evacuation-sudden fever-revolting surge-back to evacuation” cycle, and jumping straight to the recovery phase. Somewhere between Friday night and this morning, we collectively identified the culprit as being a food-born bug (Norwalk even), which brought me to this incredible medical insight.

See, for most of my life I’ve been criticized for riding illnesses out. Go to the doctor, I’m told. Get it looked at, I’m scolded. For the love of God quit pretending nothing’s wrong with you, I’m chided. It’s not that I dislike doctors at all, it’s just that I can almost always anticipate the outcome of a visit: Take this prescription, drink lots of, I dunno, juice or something, and rest up. I can accomplish two out of those three things without ever leaving the house. All three, if I just buy something over the counter.

So imagine my vindication when, reading about the ever-popular Norwalk virus, I should come across this advice:

You treat gastroenteritis caused by noroviruses by managing any complications until it passes. Dehydration caused by diarrhea and vomiting is the most common complication. Do not use medicines, including antibiotics and other treatments, unless your health professional recommends them.

In other words, ride it out. Don’t let yourself get any sicker, but otherwise — just sit through it, because nothing you can do will help anyway.

There is some hope, though. While you’re curled up and miserable, at least you can revert to the diet of a three year-old:

When you feel well enough, begin eating mild, low-fat foods, such as bananas, rice, applesauce, or dry toast or crackers. This is called the BRAT diet. Avoid spicy foods, other fruits, alcohol, and coffee for 2 days and dairy products for 3 days after all symptoms have disappeared.

Actually, I should correct myself. When my nephew was three, he at least got to have fruit and milk.

Unlike most medical advice, I’ve met this information halfway: I had crackers with my hamburger tonight, and instead of coffee I’m drinking a very mild tea. Later on, I’m going to crawl back upstairs, slither into bed, and manage my complications for what will hopefully be the last twelve hours of this ordeal.

But let it be known that for once, my approach is valid: Gutting it out, barely eating and stubbornness are cures unto themselves.

¹ Note: Never ask this question when you’re about to eat something you’ve never had before, either before or after a special occasion, if it carries even the slightest risk. Examples include, “Eat the heart of a wild boar? What could go wrong?” or “Even you can’t identify it, waitress? I’m sure if it’s been fried then it’s fine, what could go wrong?”

In fact, given the disaster potential invited by that question, even innocent comments like, “Sure I could have some chocolate cake, what could go wrong?” are right out. Just don’t ask the question at all — if possible, employ Pavlovian techniques to banish it from your mind completely.