On the way south to lots of fun, turpitude was the word of the day. I laughed as I read the story using it, because, of course, it was me at one point in my life. Well, sort of.
After an overnight at a wedding, and feeling terrible the next day, I thought I'd over-served myself, but by the magical hour of 5pm, I felt even worse.
At the hospital in trying to diagnosis me, they'd asked about beers. As it had been my first time in years without responsibilities and with the fun going long into the night, I told the nurse I'd had probably 10 to 12 beers, and again, with no one to take care of, a couple of hits, all told honestly to her, and then to the doctor. (An aside: When the doctor explained he was actually looking for harder drugs, I did ask if he could then erase my answer on pot, as it was still illegal at the time. I don't think he did.)
It turned out to be appendicitis. It was caught in time and home I went after the surgery (and another story of a fall, my fault and no injuries.)
Later in talking to my nurse friends, I found out exactly what this story said, that medical people knew not to believe the patients.
I was appalled. It's still funny to think that somewhere there could be a nurse and doctor and any others who think of me having had two dozen beers - an impossibility even for me who loves her beer!
I'd Told the Truth
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