I guess it’s easy for me to place all of the blame on you for my troubles. But when you’re describing why you’re not feeling so hot “epigastric pain” is kind of a mouthful. Plus that makes me sound like I’m trying to be a smarty pants just because I work in the medical field. It’s just easier to place the blame all on you by saying “my stomach hurts”.

Basically, I need something to blame so I chose you.

We were doing so well too. I had gone quite a few months with nary a complaint. You know that little situation we had worked out? The one where you went your way and I went mine, leaving each other alone? It was working well for me. So what happened?

Now I wake up and I’m nauseous. Something just doesn’t feel right. You’ve got my poor fiancé worried that I’m pregnant, and me worried that I’m just plain crazy (I’m pretty sure my GI specialist, the best in Pittsburgh, already thinks so anyway).

Do you really want to force me to go through all those tests again? You know, the ones where I had to eat radioactive eggs or drink barium? How about the countless blood draws? EGDs? Visits to the ER that last for hours, only to have the doctors tell me there’s nothing they can do but prescribe me Compazine? Or best yet, THAT I HAD MY GALLBLADDER REMOVED?! I sure as hell don’t.

So tell me what you want me to do. Perhaps you can have a little powwow with your neighboring digestive organs and get back to me.

In the meantime, I’m bringing back out the Compazine.

Oh, and don’t forget that I’ve removed organs before for apparently doing less. You’ve been warned.

Regards,