Sick as a dog vs. acting like a dog.

One of my strongest early childhood memories is of my family taking a clifftop walk on our wind-battered island one sunny afternoon. It's not the beauty of the wild coastline or the happy time together that sticks out in my mind; no, it's my getting sick shortly after starting down the rocky path.

I'd just eaten a hot dog, and it was clear from what reappeared that I hadn't chewed it very well at all. Before anybody could react, a big friendly dog bounded up to ravenously, joyously devour the chunks of meat that I'd presented to him, or so he must have thought.

It was a long time before I ate another hot dog again.

***

Last night I felt really ill again and let myself get famished before realizing that as much as the idea made me cringe, I had to choke something down to prevent the sickness from increasing. The only thing I could find that didn't make me recoil in disgust was a remaining box of my parent-imported mac and cheese. (Instead it gave me just a mere quiver. Of disgust, that is.)

I ate it in bed. By the last few forkfuls I knew it wouldn't sit well, and as I finished, I looked down at my empty plate and, so help me God, knowing that there was nothing else palatable in the kitchen and that my stomach absolutely had to be filled, I wondered, If I immediately throw it right back up onto this plate, can't I just eat it again?

My next thought was of the so-long-ago dog and hot dog, and my next action was to run, decrepit back be damned, to the toilet for a good – and final – purging. There would be no eating it again. As bad as things are, they cannot be that bad. I'm not a dog, after all.

***

I went to my regular-care doctor to check on my back, which is getting better. He asked if I'd been taking the pain medication, and I said no, that I was trying to avoid it as much as possible given my "delicate state."

He frowned and gestured roundly in front of his own ample belly. "Baby is in front, baby is first," he told me, and then pointed at himself, "but behind every baby is a mother who needs to take care of herself, too."

I swallowed a giggle at his personalized analogy and, deciding to listen to his counsel, asked him for an anti-nausea medication.

I'm now the proud holder of a box of metoclopramide tablets. So far so good, as in so far no more writhing and groaning in nauseated sickness. But as it was a long time before I ate another hot dog, so will it be before I tackle another bowl of steaming neon fake-cheese noodles.