Power to the peeps right on? About the Boston Ritz? Hunny, I have stayed at the Ritz-C. The robes are not free. The facecloths....well, we all have our peccadillos.
- Thread starter Meemselle
- Start date
LADIES ONLY! And Now A Few Words From Meemselle....because one word is never enough
Power to the peeps right on? About the Boston Ritz? Hunny, I have stayed at the Ritz-C. The robes are not free. The facecloths....well, we all have our peccadillos.
Angela Davis, PhD, is a towel stealer? Really? Really? Towels are power to the people?
The sleeping blanket....
We had a 'blanky' for our little girl - and they do get ripe.
When we decided to separate child & blanket we systematically reduced the size... until it was a small handkerchief.
The puzzled look on the little face .......... Blanky had melted like Frosty the Snowman.
We had a 'blanky' for our little girl - and they do get ripe.
When we decided to separate child & blanket we systematically reduced the size... until it was a small handkerchief.
The puzzled look on the little face .......... Blanky had melted like Frosty the Snowman.
This is graphic. Mighty graphic. Lucky for you, DR-1 peeps, the graphic of the actual amoeba didn't load.
And Now a Few Words From Meemselle.....because one word is never enough
Amoebas
June 11, 2014
Amoeba: a single-celled parasitic animal, i.e., a protozoa, that infects predominantly humans and other primates. Diverse mammals such as dogs and cats can become infected but usually do not shed cysts (the environmental survival form of the organism) with their feces, thus do not contribute significantly to transmission. The active (trophozoite) stage exists only in the host and in fresh feces; cysts survive outside the host in water and soils and on foods, especially under moist conditions on the latter. When swallowed they cause infections by excysting (to the trophozoite stage) in the digestive tract.
If just the definition makes you queasy, then stop right here, Gentle Reader, as this is a roller coaster ride through all 21.5 feet (that?s 20 in the small; 1.5 in the large) intestine. Or in this case, the outestine?..
Last week, my stomach felt a little funny. I have a cast-iron stomach and will do almost anything?endure searing pain and hours of nausea?to avoid vomiting. This was a serious impediment to my success as a bulimic?.When I was a child and had stomach upsets and I was trying to avoid hurling, my father (a World War II Coast Guard veteran who knew something about bravery and/or seasickness, I guess) would come into my room and say cheerfully, ?What?s the big deal? Throw up! Blarrgh! Done! You?ll feel better!? and I would moan to my mother, ?Get him out. Make him go away. Pleeeeeeeease.?
So stomach issues are not in the normal range of health issues with which I am intimately familiar. Ask me about knees. Or shoulders. Ask me about asthma. Ask me about any other number of common ailments, and I am your go-to girl, but stomachs? Not so much. For stomachs I only know from the BRAT diet. But more on that later?.
I digress?.So my tummy was hurting, and I thought that was odd and knew immediately I had appendicitis, because yes, when you hear hoof beats, always assume zebras, not horses. (This is the exact opposite of the advice a pediatrician once gave me when I was certain my child was going to die. More below on my diagnostic skills.) But I figured maybe I was hungry because I?m trying to be really careful about food because I AM going to Paris in the fall and would like to buy clothes. Clothes in Paris go from size zero to two, and I am a multiplication of the latter.
So I drank a lot of water and felt minimally better. I went to dinner at Caf? Tropical on Wednesday and had to wait sort of a long time for my food, but when it came?grilled salmon and a baked potato and white wine?I felt significantly better.
On Thursday, I was upstairs reading in the afternoon and felt really crappy. But again, I hadn?t eaten. Only this time the water wasn?t doing the trick. And I was a little dizzy. And the stomach sensation was much more intense. So I immediately knew I had peritonitis and was going to expire?like Cimmie Mosley?within the day. Hoof beats of zebras. So I decided to run out and get some chicken soup.
I went to Chain-Link Italian here in Sos?a (it has a name but I never remember it) where they make an excellent chicken soup. Not as good as mine, but for goyische chicken soup, OK. The waiter brought it to my table, set it down, smiled, and ponced away. The normally enticing aroma drifted to my nose, whereupon floods of nausea ensued, and I thought I was going to faint right there at Chain-Link Italian. I forced a few spoonsful down, ate a small piece of bread, broke out in a drenching sweat, and asked for the check. The waiter was understandably flummoxed, but I gurgled something, in my horrible Spanish, to the effect of, ?It?s not you; it?s me.? (which I think I say a lot in this country, but again, I digress?.) I reeled home and got into bed.
?.which is where it becomes graphic.
That night, Gentle Readers, I **** the bed. Actually. Literally. Graphically.
I thought perhaps a little gas needed to be passed but what passed was not in the gaseous family of matter. This was one of those moments where one desperately wishes one were not alone, in a foreign country on a personal voyage of independence and resiliency. Because in such a moment, Gentle Reader?and I sincerely hope you never experience such a moment?your humble author was about as independent as a lemming and as resilient as overcooked fusilli.
That morning, I told the ever-intrepid Juan that I needed to go to the CMC (Centro Medico Cabarete) right away. Juan is very suspicious of the CMC; it?s a for-profit health care facility where ex-pats and wealthy or well-insured Dominicans go. Most of the doctors speak English, and I have had pretty good care there. However, Juan is convinced that CMC is a place where white people go to die. I keep explaining to him that since they have a 24/7/365 emergency room, a lot of those people were probably pretty messed up by the time they got to CMC, but Juan is nothing if not steadfast in his opinions. At this point, I am not sure that Juan is wrong.....
Anyway, I get to CMC, they take one look at me and they start an IV. The next thing I know, I am taken to a room upstairs. Nice nurse-y lady in a shirt that doesn't button brings a tray of food for lunch. I ask her to please take it away. Because I think I am going to hurl. I think about my father OBM. I drift in and out and out of sleep. Juan?s wife comes and brings me a bag of nightclothes, because in true Dominican fashion, they?ve put me into bed in my regular clothes and a hospital johnnie over them. Because she is Dominicana, she also brings me earrings and makeup. Which is not happening. They take my temperature. From my armpit. Concerned looks are exchanged. Another IV bag is started. Juan comes back. The doctor comes back. He tells me I am being kept overnight. I start to cry.
We ask for a doctor who speaks better English, because I am doing all of this in my horrible Spanish, with a plastic line in my arm and a hospital johnnie over my clothes. Puh-mother-effin-leeeeeeze.
Nice bald-headed doctor who speaks excellent English comes and I tell him I want to go home. We chit chit chat about the implications of self-release. I understand them. He releases me. Reluctantly. I come home. I light Shabbat candles. I go to bed.
On Saturday, feeling marginally improved, I am a leeeeetle beet annoyed because everyone is telling me to eat. Channeling Lady Redesdale, I figure if the Good Body doesn?t want to eat, it?s not time to feed her. However, I bow to the yakking chorus, and put myself on BRAT.
BRAT, for the uninitiated, is how you feed your kid when he has a tummy ache. Oh, and did I mention that I, with my cast-iron stomach, have a child with a stomach like a butterfly wing? BRAT is the acronym for bananas, rice, applesauce, and tea. You can also add some ginger ale with the bubbles stirred out. Which is what I feed myself. But not the bananas because even thinking of the smell made me a little wobbly. So a cup of plain brown rice and some nice flat ginger ale later, I go back to bed. I suffer an overnight relapse.
Gentle Reader, when I say ?overnight relapse,? you have no ****ing idea. It was one of perhaps three previous moments in my life when hoof beats of horses-vs.-zebras, I sincerely and without drama believed I was going to die. I said the Shema and prepared to meet my Maker. But the Master of the Universe smiled, and saved me for another day. I crawled downstairs on Sunday morning and croaked to Juan, ?I need to go back to the clinic.?
Moments like these are what Juan lives for. If you ever find yourself in a life-threatening crisis ? and you have time to make a quick call ? give me a ring and I will send Juan. Seriously. He sprang into action like Spiderman. Se?ora Meems was sent back to bed and Juan called one of the doctors who makes house calls. Yes: Americans. You read that correctly. ?One of the doctors who makes house calls.?
Dr. Mario Lopes works at CMC and I remember meeting him there while accompanying a hotel guest to the emergency room on New Years Day. He also works at Funeraria Blas Blas right down the street. He is a forensic pathologist. So yes, Quincy is my primary care physician. This is not encouraging.
So the Dominican Quincy fires me up with another IV, except this one has to go in my hand because I had a bruise the size of a grapefruit (Thank G*d for the grapefruit!) on my inner elbow from the IV on Friday. Juan runs downstairs to find a hammer and a nail and some plastic rope so they can hang my IV from my bedroom doorway. Dr. Lopes pinches my arm and my skin does not snap back (it sort of doesn?t anyway, past a certain age, does it?), but remains in little puckers like cairns along my arm, which I later learn is not due to my advanced age but to my extreme dehydration. I start feeling as if I am too young to die. But then I remember that only the good die young, so I take heart.
I spend all day Sunday in bed, wandering occasionally, St. Bartholomew-like, carrying my IV bag, to the bathroom to divest the Good Body of various substances, all of them liquid. Dr. Lopes comes back to fire up another IV bag. The sun sets.
But fortunately not on me. Two IV bags and about 777 quarts of water later, I rouse from my near-comatose state and realize I feel nearly human. Quincy comes to take out the IV and finds me semi-recumbent (like Molly Bloom) and reading. Everyone is happy. Muchas gracias are exchanged, pills are dispensed, and the saga of when ?The Weekend That the Intestine Became the Outestine? ends.
What I later learn is that amoebas feed on sugar, and by BRAT-ing myself, I basically gave the little suckers the equivalent of dinner at Taillevent.
All?s well that ends well. But Gentle Reader, if you ever wish for amoebas as a vehicle for speedy weight loss, bookmark this blog and read it again.
And Now a Few Words From Meemselle.....because one word is never enough
Amoebas
June 11, 2014
Amoeba: a single-celled parasitic animal, i.e., a protozoa, that infects predominantly humans and other primates. Diverse mammals such as dogs and cats can become infected but usually do not shed cysts (the environmental survival form of the organism) with their feces, thus do not contribute significantly to transmission. The active (trophozoite) stage exists only in the host and in fresh feces; cysts survive outside the host in water and soils and on foods, especially under moist conditions on the latter. When swallowed they cause infections by excysting (to the trophozoite stage) in the digestive tract.
If just the definition makes you queasy, then stop right here, Gentle Reader, as this is a roller coaster ride through all 21.5 feet (that?s 20 in the small; 1.5 in the large) intestine. Or in this case, the outestine?..
Last week, my stomach felt a little funny. I have a cast-iron stomach and will do almost anything?endure searing pain and hours of nausea?to avoid vomiting. This was a serious impediment to my success as a bulimic?.When I was a child and had stomach upsets and I was trying to avoid hurling, my father (a World War II Coast Guard veteran who knew something about bravery and/or seasickness, I guess) would come into my room and say cheerfully, ?What?s the big deal? Throw up! Blarrgh! Done! You?ll feel better!? and I would moan to my mother, ?Get him out. Make him go away. Pleeeeeeeease.?
So stomach issues are not in the normal range of health issues with which I am intimately familiar. Ask me about knees. Or shoulders. Ask me about asthma. Ask me about any other number of common ailments, and I am your go-to girl, but stomachs? Not so much. For stomachs I only know from the BRAT diet. But more on that later?.
I digress?.So my tummy was hurting, and I thought that was odd and knew immediately I had appendicitis, because yes, when you hear hoof beats, always assume zebras, not horses. (This is the exact opposite of the advice a pediatrician once gave me when I was certain my child was going to die. More below on my diagnostic skills.) But I figured maybe I was hungry because I?m trying to be really careful about food because I AM going to Paris in the fall and would like to buy clothes. Clothes in Paris go from size zero to two, and I am a multiplication of the latter.
So I drank a lot of water and felt minimally better. I went to dinner at Caf? Tropical on Wednesday and had to wait sort of a long time for my food, but when it came?grilled salmon and a baked potato and white wine?I felt significantly better.
On Thursday, I was upstairs reading in the afternoon and felt really crappy. But again, I hadn?t eaten. Only this time the water wasn?t doing the trick. And I was a little dizzy. And the stomach sensation was much more intense. So I immediately knew I had peritonitis and was going to expire?like Cimmie Mosley?within the day. Hoof beats of zebras. So I decided to run out and get some chicken soup.
I went to Chain-Link Italian here in Sos?a (it has a name but I never remember it) where they make an excellent chicken soup. Not as good as mine, but for goyische chicken soup, OK. The waiter brought it to my table, set it down, smiled, and ponced away. The normally enticing aroma drifted to my nose, whereupon floods of nausea ensued, and I thought I was going to faint right there at Chain-Link Italian. I forced a few spoonsful down, ate a small piece of bread, broke out in a drenching sweat, and asked for the check. The waiter was understandably flummoxed, but I gurgled something, in my horrible Spanish, to the effect of, ?It?s not you; it?s me.? (which I think I say a lot in this country, but again, I digress?.) I reeled home and got into bed.
?.which is where it becomes graphic.
That night, Gentle Readers, I **** the bed. Actually. Literally. Graphically.
I thought perhaps a little gas needed to be passed but what passed was not in the gaseous family of matter. This was one of those moments where one desperately wishes one were not alone, in a foreign country on a personal voyage of independence and resiliency. Because in such a moment, Gentle Reader?and I sincerely hope you never experience such a moment?your humble author was about as independent as a lemming and as resilient as overcooked fusilli.
That morning, I told the ever-intrepid Juan that I needed to go to the CMC (Centro Medico Cabarete) right away. Juan is very suspicious of the CMC; it?s a for-profit health care facility where ex-pats and wealthy or well-insured Dominicans go. Most of the doctors speak English, and I have had pretty good care there. However, Juan is convinced that CMC is a place where white people go to die. I keep explaining to him that since they have a 24/7/365 emergency room, a lot of those people were probably pretty messed up by the time they got to CMC, but Juan is nothing if not steadfast in his opinions. At this point, I am not sure that Juan is wrong.....
Anyway, I get to CMC, they take one look at me and they start an IV. The next thing I know, I am taken to a room upstairs. Nice nurse-y lady in a shirt that doesn't button brings a tray of food for lunch. I ask her to please take it away. Because I think I am going to hurl. I think about my father OBM. I drift in and out and out of sleep. Juan?s wife comes and brings me a bag of nightclothes, because in true Dominican fashion, they?ve put me into bed in my regular clothes and a hospital johnnie over them. Because she is Dominicana, she also brings me earrings and makeup. Which is not happening. They take my temperature. From my armpit. Concerned looks are exchanged. Another IV bag is started. Juan comes back. The doctor comes back. He tells me I am being kept overnight. I start to cry.
We ask for a doctor who speaks better English, because I am doing all of this in my horrible Spanish, with a plastic line in my arm and a hospital johnnie over my clothes. Puh-mother-effin-leeeeeeze.
Nice bald-headed doctor who speaks excellent English comes and I tell him I want to go home. We chit chit chat about the implications of self-release. I understand them. He releases me. Reluctantly. I come home. I light Shabbat candles. I go to bed.
On Saturday, feeling marginally improved, I am a leeeeetle beet annoyed because everyone is telling me to eat. Channeling Lady Redesdale, I figure if the Good Body doesn?t want to eat, it?s not time to feed her. However, I bow to the yakking chorus, and put myself on BRAT.
BRAT, for the uninitiated, is how you feed your kid when he has a tummy ache. Oh, and did I mention that I, with my cast-iron stomach, have a child with a stomach like a butterfly wing? BRAT is the acronym for bananas, rice, applesauce, and tea. You can also add some ginger ale with the bubbles stirred out. Which is what I feed myself. But not the bananas because even thinking of the smell made me a little wobbly. So a cup of plain brown rice and some nice flat ginger ale later, I go back to bed. I suffer an overnight relapse.
Gentle Reader, when I say ?overnight relapse,? you have no ****ing idea. It was one of perhaps three previous moments in my life when hoof beats of horses-vs.-zebras, I sincerely and without drama believed I was going to die. I said the Shema and prepared to meet my Maker. But the Master of the Universe smiled, and saved me for another day. I crawled downstairs on Sunday morning and croaked to Juan, ?I need to go back to the clinic.?
Moments like these are what Juan lives for. If you ever find yourself in a life-threatening crisis ? and you have time to make a quick call ? give me a ring and I will send Juan. Seriously. He sprang into action like Spiderman. Se?ora Meems was sent back to bed and Juan called one of the doctors who makes house calls. Yes: Americans. You read that correctly. ?One of the doctors who makes house calls.?
Dr. Mario Lopes works at CMC and I remember meeting him there while accompanying a hotel guest to the emergency room on New Years Day. He also works at Funeraria Blas Blas right down the street. He is a forensic pathologist. So yes, Quincy is my primary care physician. This is not encouraging.
So the Dominican Quincy fires me up with another IV, except this one has to go in my hand because I had a bruise the size of a grapefruit (Thank G*d for the grapefruit!) on my inner elbow from the IV on Friday. Juan runs downstairs to find a hammer and a nail and some plastic rope so they can hang my IV from my bedroom doorway. Dr. Lopes pinches my arm and my skin does not snap back (it sort of doesn?t anyway, past a certain age, does it?), but remains in little puckers like cairns along my arm, which I later learn is not due to my advanced age but to my extreme dehydration. I start feeling as if I am too young to die. But then I remember that only the good die young, so I take heart.
I spend all day Sunday in bed, wandering occasionally, St. Bartholomew-like, carrying my IV bag, to the bathroom to divest the Good Body of various substances, all of them liquid. Dr. Lopes comes back to fire up another IV bag. The sun sets.
But fortunately not on me. Two IV bags and about 777 quarts of water later, I rouse from my near-comatose state and realize I feel nearly human. Quincy comes to take out the IV and finds me semi-recumbent (like Molly Bloom) and reading. Everyone is happy. Muchas gracias are exchanged, pills are dispensed, and the saga of when ?The Weekend That the Intestine Became the Outestine? ends.
What I later learn is that amoebas feed on sugar, and by BRAT-ing myself, I basically gave the little suckers the equivalent of dinner at Taillevent.
All?s well that ends well. But Gentle Reader, if you ever wish for amoebas as a vehicle for speedy weight loss, bookmark this blog and read it again.
Meems, you have a gift. many, maybe, but you have the ability to extract humor from gastric distress.
Goes to show you, you're never to old to learn something new. Didn't realise those little brats fed on sugar. No more jello for Montezuma's Revenge!
I don't think they ever truly die or go away.
It's just a matter of how long they rest in a dormant state.... always returning.
At least in my experience.........
As for the little 'slip up' between gas and gaseous matter.......
Been there done that..........
In a car on the highway.
My friends gave me a bag of Depends at our next party.......... not funny.
It's just a matter of how long they rest in a dormant state.... always returning.
At least in my experience.........
As for the little 'slip up' between gas and gaseous matter.......
Been there done that..........
In a car on the highway.
My friends gave me a bag of Depends at our next party.......... not funny.
have you had any lab tests performed? amoeba is just one of many options among various gastrointestinal visitors common in DR and without a test it is impossible to identify them since they all present the same symptoms. it would have called for a more thorough treatment too. lots of parasites/bacteria can stay with you for quite a long time and cause further damage.
also: never trust a fart.
also: never trust a fart.
I was told the best things to eat in the aftermath are protein and some fats.
A tablespoon of baking soda mixed with enough lime juice to make it liquid (although revolting) also helps to maintain the appropriate intestinal balance.
After 40 years going to DR, and never having any problem, "it" got me this year. It started just days after returning home from 4 months at our DR home. Went on for weeks, doctors, tests, meds. Nothing was working. Doc finally prescribed Xifaxan [expensive stuff!!!] along with ultra strength probiotics, and that did it.
.you are the wordsmith of the site. you must be able to dredge up a more forceful word than revolting to describe the taste of baking soda and lime juice.
basically, chikin soup
i have had more intestinal issues here than i care for. good news is that in time you do get certain level of resistance. subsequent infections may be a lot less problematic.