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LJ Idol 6.16: Breaking the fast...
Mar. 1st, 2010 11:11 amOver several weeks, the economy-size bottle of antacid had become a fixture on my desk, and by the second week in December, I had to tilt the bottle ever higher to get a gut-calming swig of the chalky liquid into my system.
At 2:55 pm on Friday the 15th, I drained the last swallow from the bottle, screwed the cap back on, and tossed it into the trash. After a minute or two, once my stomach pain had subsided, I picked up the six large envelopes containing the journals we were sending to press, asked the two people in my department to wish me luck, and set off down the hall.
My plan had a little more than 16 hours left to go.
I had started to take the antacid in mid-November, to counter stomach pain that came and went. At the time, I figured the pain was my stomach's reaction to food, given the stress of having to meet a target of 12 journals sent to press by 3 pm on December 15. Compounding the pressure was a requirement that I report at 7 am on December 16 for my annual two weeks of active duty as a Marine reservist, which was something I had missed earlier in the year owing to a similar mid-year work deadline. I couldn't miss my journal deadline, because my department's annual bonuses depended on it, nor could I fail to report for military duty at the appointed hour, for obvious reasons.
Under normal circumstances, putting a dozen journals to bed in a month was no big deal. Journal articles would be translated, the translations would be edited, and the edited copy would be typeset and proofread. Then everything would go off to the mechanical art department and when it came back, the result would undergo two or more cycles of checks and corrections, until finally, everything went into a large manila envelope that I delivered to the guy who dealt with the print shop.
The problem was, circumstances were hardly ever normal. A translator might send work back late, or an editor might require an article be retranslated, or there simply might not be enough hours in the day to get everything done. In the end, it didn't take much for a journal submittal to get bumped to the following week. As a result, with seven days left to go, my department was only halfway to its goal, and by this time, my stomach pain routinely left me bent over (despite the Maalox) and occurred with such regularity after meals that I had pretty much stopped eating.
Why, you might ask, didn't I go see a doctor? Well, you see, I had a plan.
I figured that, as long as I didn't experience anything really serious (like throwing up blood, at which point I'd immediately go see a doctor), I'd tough out the stomach pain, put the journals to bed, show up for duty the next morning, and immediately report for sick call. That way, instead of being assigned a mop and a broom for two weeks (the typical fate of individual Reservists making up active duty time), I would spend my active duty either in bed or on light duty. In retrospect, there were a number of things stupid and wrong with my plan, but it seemed like a viable course at the time.
I had returned to my office after dropping off the journals when my friend Champ called. We chatted briefly and he suggested we meet at quitting time and then go hang out for a while. With the weight of the journals off my shoulders and the prospect of a couple of easy weeks ahead of me, I welcomed the suggestion.
The details of most of what we did elude me, now, but I do remember Champ insisted on stopping by for a quick bite at one of the many places in Manhattan that serve "hero" sandwiches. I agreed to accompany him, but seeing as how eating even plain yogurt was enough to make it feel as if someone was driving a railroad spike into my gut, I didn't order anything.
"Not feeling hungry?" asked Champ, as he paid for his sandwich.
"Not really," I said. "My stomach's been hurting."
"That's too bad," he said. "You worried about what crappy duty they've got in store for you?" Champ had been in the Marines, too.
"What can they do? Cut off my hair and recycle me?" I said. It was a line I'd picked up in boot camp, where "recycling" meant getting left behind to repeat a training cycle. After boot camp, most of life is a cakewalk.
Champ responded with a little laugh as he picked up his order, and we found a table and sat down.
Champ had ordered a sandwich with lots of spicy cold cuts and "the works," sprinkled with salt and pepper and slathered with oil and vinegar. It smelled heavenly. My stomach growled.
"You want half?" he asked, motioning toward his plate.
"No, I better not," I said.
"Your lips are saying no, but there's 'Yes!' 'Yes!' in your eyes," said Champ. He was trying to be funny, paraphrasing a line from one of his favorite Dean Martin songs. I said nothing, but looked at the sandwich, ran the palm of my hand over the top of my head, and started rubbing the back of my neck.
Champ pushed the tray across the table at me. "You don't have to eat it all," he said. "Just take a little bit. Go on!"
I hadn't eaten more than one or two mouthfuls at meals since Thanksgiving, because of the ensuing pain, which only got worse with time. Still, I was hungry. So I cut an inch-long piece off Champ's sandwich and ate it slowly, savoring the flavors and textures. I figured I may as well maximize my enjoyment, seeing as how I was, at most, five minutes away from an industrial-strength spasm of stomach pain.
The spasm never came.
A quarter hour passed without the slightest twinge of pain, which astounded me. Feeling adventurous, and with a growing suspicion, I ordered a sandwich just like Champ's and ate it, with no painful aftermath. My suspicion had been that my pain – which certainly felt real over the previous several weeks – was due entirely to my reaction to the situation I was in. The word 'psychosomatic' crossed my mind.
The next morning, after a hearty breakfast, I reported to my Reserve Center. My stomach pain was well and truly gone, but there was a small mountain of "Toys for Tots" donations that had to be dealt with, requiring someone to sort through them all, and pretty quickly, too.
According to the Center's top sergeant, I was just the man for the job.
At 2:55 pm on Friday the 15th, I drained the last swallow from the bottle, screwed the cap back on, and tossed it into the trash. After a minute or two, once my stomach pain had subsided, I picked up the six large envelopes containing the journals we were sending to press, asked the two people in my department to wish me luck, and set off down the hall.
My plan had a little more than 16 hours left to go.
I had started to take the antacid in mid-November, to counter stomach pain that came and went. At the time, I figured the pain was my stomach's reaction to food, given the stress of having to meet a target of 12 journals sent to press by 3 pm on December 15. Compounding the pressure was a requirement that I report at 7 am on December 16 for my annual two weeks of active duty as a Marine reservist, which was something I had missed earlier in the year owing to a similar mid-year work deadline. I couldn't miss my journal deadline, because my department's annual bonuses depended on it, nor could I fail to report for military duty at the appointed hour, for obvious reasons.
Under normal circumstances, putting a dozen journals to bed in a month was no big deal. Journal articles would be translated, the translations would be edited, and the edited copy would be typeset and proofread. Then everything would go off to the mechanical art department and when it came back, the result would undergo two or more cycles of checks and corrections, until finally, everything went into a large manila envelope that I delivered to the guy who dealt with the print shop.
The problem was, circumstances were hardly ever normal. A translator might send work back late, or an editor might require an article be retranslated, or there simply might not be enough hours in the day to get everything done. In the end, it didn't take much for a journal submittal to get bumped to the following week. As a result, with seven days left to go, my department was only halfway to its goal, and by this time, my stomach pain routinely left me bent over (despite the Maalox) and occurred with such regularity after meals that I had pretty much stopped eating.
Why, you might ask, didn't I go see a doctor? Well, you see, I had a plan.
I figured that, as long as I didn't experience anything really serious (like throwing up blood, at which point I'd immediately go see a doctor), I'd tough out the stomach pain, put the journals to bed, show up for duty the next morning, and immediately report for sick call. That way, instead of being assigned a mop and a broom for two weeks (the typical fate of individual Reservists making up active duty time), I would spend my active duty either in bed or on light duty. In retrospect, there were a number of things stupid and wrong with my plan, but it seemed like a viable course at the time.
I had returned to my office after dropping off the journals when my friend Champ called. We chatted briefly and he suggested we meet at quitting time and then go hang out for a while. With the weight of the journals off my shoulders and the prospect of a couple of easy weeks ahead of me, I welcomed the suggestion.
The details of most of what we did elude me, now, but I do remember Champ insisted on stopping by for a quick bite at one of the many places in Manhattan that serve "hero" sandwiches. I agreed to accompany him, but seeing as how eating even plain yogurt was enough to make it feel as if someone was driving a railroad spike into my gut, I didn't order anything.
"Not feeling hungry?" asked Champ, as he paid for his sandwich.
"Not really," I said. "My stomach's been hurting."
"That's too bad," he said. "You worried about what crappy duty they've got in store for you?" Champ had been in the Marines, too.
"What can they do? Cut off my hair and recycle me?" I said. It was a line I'd picked up in boot camp, where "recycling" meant getting left behind to repeat a training cycle. After boot camp, most of life is a cakewalk.
Champ responded with a little laugh as he picked up his order, and we found a table and sat down.
Champ had ordered a sandwich with lots of spicy cold cuts and "the works," sprinkled with salt and pepper and slathered with oil and vinegar. It smelled heavenly. My stomach growled.
"You want half?" he asked, motioning toward his plate.
"No, I better not," I said.
"Your lips are saying no, but there's 'Yes!' 'Yes!' in your eyes," said Champ. He was trying to be funny, paraphrasing a line from one of his favorite Dean Martin songs. I said nothing, but looked at the sandwich, ran the palm of my hand over the top of my head, and started rubbing the back of my neck.
Champ pushed the tray across the table at me. "You don't have to eat it all," he said. "Just take a little bit. Go on!"
I hadn't eaten more than one or two mouthfuls at meals since Thanksgiving, because of the ensuing pain, which only got worse with time. Still, I was hungry. So I cut an inch-long piece off Champ's sandwich and ate it slowly, savoring the flavors and textures. I figured I may as well maximize my enjoyment, seeing as how I was, at most, five minutes away from an industrial-strength spasm of stomach pain.
The spasm never came.
A quarter hour passed without the slightest twinge of pain, which astounded me. Feeling adventurous, and with a growing suspicion, I ordered a sandwich just like Champ's and ate it, with no painful aftermath. My suspicion had been that my pain – which certainly felt real over the previous several weeks – was due entirely to my reaction to the situation I was in. The word 'psychosomatic' crossed my mind.
The next morning, after a hearty breakfast, I reported to my Reserve Center. My stomach pain was well and truly gone, but there was a small mountain of "Toys for Tots" donations that had to be dealt with, requiring someone to sort through them all, and pretty quickly, too.
According to the Center's top sergeant, I was just the man for the job.
