Nurses make the worst patients

Recently I went on a little backpacking trip with my old backpacking camp: Young Life's Wilderness Ranch. My guide partner and I took a group of Baylor's finest Young Life leaders out for the best week of their lives and brought them back with a small going away present.

Giardia.

Affectionately known as the G Rock.

Because it rocks your socks off. And not in a good way.

This is not an easy feat, mind you. I am a little bit proud of us. I guided for two summers without ever receiving this little friend, and after one week back on the trail, he's decided to make a home in my tummy. And I'm pretty sure he's made his home in the tummies of all my new Baylor friends as well. Neat.

For those of you who know what giardia is and are thinking "ew. gross. why are you telling me about this?", you can stop thinking less of me and forever labeling me as the giardia girl because I didn't have the normal symptoms, ok. Hopefully you catch my drift and I don't have to tell you what that means. But you can stop judging me now.

I am, however, really proud of my excellent nursy skills because I correctly diagnosed myself even when the Nurse Practitioner listened to my symptoms and didn't actually believe I had it. She ordered a test anyway, and low and behold, it came back positive. HA! I WIN! Slash, I lose. Because you never really win when you have giardia.

On a side note, I am also proud of my excellent nursy skills because I totally fixed some guy's dislocated finger the other day in the park! Yes! Two nurse points in one week! Winner!

Back to the story.

So the NP prescribes me this antibiotic. An antibiotic I am to take in one dose. Four pink horse pills all at once. Yikes! Not my idea of a good time. I gag them down all the while considering what havoc they're going to wreak on my body. I mean, they must be fairly powerful if they're going to knock out the bacteria that's been eating away at my insides for a month in one fell swoop. Right? Right. My stomach is now upset because of the medication and my mouth tastes like I'm lapping up the inside of a tin can continually. Yuck.

Oh, and to boot, I can't have any lactose for a month. Because apparently the G Rock can cause permanent lactose intolerance and if I stay away from it for a month maybe I'll be spared from being a lactard for the rest of my life. Cool. So now my mouth tastes like metal and I can't even enjoy my morning latte. It's the best part of waking up/working at a coffee shop and I can't even partake! Nor can I have cheese. Or butter. It's been two days and I'm pretty sure every pitcher of milk I steam and every cheesy bagel sandwich I make beckons me to come back to it. And then laughs in my face when I tell it I have to stay away from it for a while. But just for a little while, I say. Don't worry, my friend. I will never let you go!

This is my nightmare. And I have spent the last two days whining about it to anyone who will listen. And now I am continuing to whine about it on a blog that I know at least 70 some-odd people will read. And I'm sorry. Only not. Because I imagine you at least got to laugh a little at my misfortune which ultimately makes up for the whining. Right?

Love and Kombucha (for the probiotics, of course).

And milk.

And cheese.

And butter.

And cream cheese.

And sour cream.

And milk chocolate.

And cottage cheese.

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