Poisoned

Just a quick note, for those who’ve been wondering where I’ve been lately. Two Sundays back, you almost lost your loving Uncle Mark. The culprit? Tiny bacteria — specifically, the nasty little buggers that lurk in undercooked chicken.

After taking just a few bites, I knew my chicken stir-fry from Midtown’s own Tin Drum restaurant didn’t taste quite right. When I detected a faintly metallic undertone, I pushed back my plate.

But I was too late. By Monday morning at 1:30 AM, I was sicker than I’ve ever been … and after vomiting sixteen times in six hours, I finally wound up in the Crawford-Long Emergency Room. By 7:30, I was so dehydrated, I couldn’t think clearly. At times, I didn’t even know where I was.

Thank God for Clyde, who recognized the progressive signs of dehydration. Had I been alone, I’m not sure what would have happened. By the time I knew I was in serious trouble, I was too weak to take action on my own behalf.

It took two bags of IV fluid, anti-nausea drugs, and several hours of supplemental oxygen to get me back to the point where I was both lucid and able to swallow water. After finally being sent home, I couldn’t eat solid food for days … and took more than a week to recover fully.

Oh, the irony: I’ve eaten food from street stalls in Beijing and entire meals from questionable bars in Cambodia without ever once getting sick … and, in the end, it was a chicken stir-fry from Tin Drum in Midtown that finally took me down.

It’s good to be back.

Heck, it’s good to be alive!