Reminder to self: Never eat cooked chicken from a grocery store again. 

I mean it this time. 

The only time I ever hallucinated was while I was in high school.  My mother brought home a pre-cooked chicken from Market Basket, we tore it apart as usual, and later that night my stomach started to feel really bad.  Before I knew it I was heaving up something awful – at it just wouldn’t end.  Over a day, I think, lying in bed, sometimes running to the toilet to throw, and otherwise just lying there, sweating, hallucinating.  Every sensation at my fingertips was amplified, and caused the bile to rise in my throat; the touch of my blanket, my pillows, my sheets, all permanently etched in my memory.

The hallucinations were the worst; while in a feverish sweat in my tiny bedroom, I saw myself suddenly as a reluctant Nazi soldier in World War II.  My commander was yelling at me; it was my turn to shoot someone, to execute a Slav or Jew.  Everything was in German.  I couldn’t do it; I couldn’t even raise my weapon…so I crumbled to the floor as the soldiers around me yelled at me, calling me a coward, a sympathizer, unfit…

This is pretty nasty stuff to have when you’re 14. 

Ever since then, I’ve had a tendency to avoid those pre-cooked, packaged chickens in the store.  Maybe it was just one unfortunate occurrence at Market Basket, where the chicken had something, or got left out too long, or whatever – but it wasn’t something I was anxious to repeat.  So from 14 to 24, roughly, I never ate (cooked) chicken from a grocery story. 

Fast forward to my promotion into IT, and my flights down to Lake Mary for work.  Well, I got a daily allowance for meals, and to stretch it out, nothing was better than grocery stores.  I could shop once on a Monday, and have dinner, drinks, and dessert all week.  But roving around the aisles hungry, and getting a whiff of that chicken – well, I caved in.  What’s the harm?  I’ll pick up some honey mustard, eat a few pieces and be done with dinner.  One-stop shopping. 

Sure enough, 3 pieces later I was rolling around on my hotel bed, wondering why I felt sick.  I didn’t hurl this time – same violent outburst, different hemisphere – but it still was enough to keep me strongly cemented in my no-grocery-store-cooked-chicken mindset. 

Then, yesterday, I do my last run of grocery shopping in Orlando.  One last time to get all the cheese, chips, apricots, peaches, tomatoes, salad, etc that I will need until I move in three weeks.  Sure enough, I catch a whiff of that fried-chicken smell in Winn Dixie, and I am almost a victim again.  But no, I think.  Not at Winn-Dixie.  Maaaaaybe I would give Publix a run for their money – but not Winn Dixie.  I just don’t trust them as much.

So in Publix 10 minutes later (I shop at two or three grocery stores at a time; they’re all in a row, and they usually have different sales going), I eye the meat counter where the pre-cooked chicken is sold.  Sure enough, there it is – a pack of 8 pieces, $6.99, nice golden fried chicken.  It’s calling my name.  So I pick it up, run home, and eat a few pieces while watching the Men’s Tennis finals of the US Open. 

Later, around 9:20, I get hungry for dinner.  Seeing the remaining chicken in the fridge, I heat up a few wings, and throw some old honey mustard from my fridge on them.  The honey mustard had an expiration date in March, but the year was gone, wiped off apparently from its time in the cold fridg-iness.  I bet on 2008 or 2009 – it was honey mustard, from crying out loud.  This wasn’t meat.  Plus, even if it had once said March 2007 as the expiration (I moved down in Feb of 2006, so I KNEW 2006 was out), my dad used to quote his friends saying “There were no expiration dates on food when I grew up!  And I turned out fine!”  Even if it expired a few months back (okay, 6 months back) what’s the worst that could happen?

Of course, most of my father’s friends have passed on by now.

So after this makeshift dinner, I can’t quite get settled on the couch; stomach is acting up a bit.  But I don’t think anything of it; just go upstairs, play with my prized new laptop for a bit, and eventually fall asleep. 

I wake up and it is still dark.  Uh oh.  I roll over and take a look at the clock.  4:20am.  Ohhhh no.  This is bad news.  I NEVER wake up this early.  And as consciousness comes to me, I feel a rock in my stomach; I can feel and hear it gurgling slightly.  Percolating. 

Ohhhhhh no, please no. 

I try to simply roll over, ignore it.  I have an iron stomach, I thought.  Maybe some pink stuff or whatever…if only I had some in the house.  Soon it became un-ignore-able, and as I sat up on the bed a wave of nausea overcame me.  I couldn’t throw up, I thought.  I hadn’t thrown up since…man, I think since I was 14 that time.  This would be breaking a 12 year streak.  Naah – it must just be the other end, having some problems on the way out.  No biggie. 

So I sit down in the bathroom, and after some birth pangs, I clean out the back end.  But the rock is still there, settled in my stomach.  And every time I sit up or lean over, I can feel it gain momentum.  Throwmentum.  As my eyes tear up and my mouth gets watery, I know there is no use holding back; I try to give myself space and close the bathroom door, and proceed to hurl my guts out for the next half hour.  Vomit is amazing; the volume is really quite astounding when you see it from just a few inches away. 

I try desperately to use mouthwash, brush my teeth, and down some water afterwards to clean out as best I can.  Eventually, stomach finally settled, I settle down and fall back asleep, a new, vomitous man.

So – in conclusion?

Hats off to bulimia chicks – I don’t think I could do this once a decade, let alone several times a day.  Usually I just feel bad for you for not overcoming a poor self image or turning to other, more viable measurements of self worth – but today, you have my respect for what you go through. 

And for me, no more chicken from grocery stores.  I mean it this time. 

-EO