The Attack of the Killer Sandwich

Perhaps it was in my youth when the constant refrain of my parents to a young, under-the-weather me was that I should just stick it out and go to school. Maybe its a result of having spent way to much time in doctors' offices for the past decade of my life. Or maybe I'm just like Paula's forbidden fruit, a Cold Hearted Snake. Regardless of the reason, I have little sympathy or tolerance for physical pain. Rather than dwell on injury or sickness, I simply pretend it's not there. In college, for example, I functioned at a decently high level with incredible pain in my hip. Turns out, oops!, my hip was broken- guess I probably shouldn't have 'toughed it out' during those painful jogs around the reservoir...

It should not come as a surprise that when my father-recently back in the house after the foot surgery- complained of a stomach ache and had me WebMD some remedies last night, I thought nothing of it. Just a little tummy ache. This morning, however, I arose to a phone call from said father who began the conversation with, "just want to let you know, everything's fine." That is code for something is definitely not right, something is quite wrong.

Following our conversation I was transformed into a 20th century switchboard operator/press secretary regarding my dad's health. As soon as I got a trinket of information i was charged with calling and no less than ten individuals who would relay his gastric-intestinal issues to the next chink on the phone chain.

The game of telephone does not need to go through too many connections to become badly garbled. Below are some of the highlights of the many MANY conversations I've had with various family members and neighbors:

- Icka-itis? Is that what you said?
- I have some good contacts at the middle school. Do you want me to see if I can get MJ on the phone? (Blogger is actually still laughing about this one)
- His head got stuck?
- Apparently our neighbor was yelling at the EMTs for bringing the ritual small town parade of all available emergency vehicles (of which there are many at 3:30 am) after being expressly told to only bring the ambulance. They were slightly forgiven after they noted to said neighbor that at least they didn't turn on the sirens.
- Yellow skin?

Turns out, the real evil-doer in this whole situation is (drum roll) a tuna sandwich. After a few hours of painless feet yesterday, my dad indulged in a delicious treat from the sea that did not sit well with the meds and vulnerable immune system. Colonel Mustard in the kitchen with the tuna. That is the secret to this mystery, and I have to get through the standard ten follow-up phone calls without laughing while relaying it.