The Other Man in my shirt.

And that’s how my Only Fans page started.

“We will let you pay us an exorbitant amount of money to shove a cable down your throat with a tiny camera and take pictures of your admittedly sexy esophagus, your acid-junkie stomach, and the beginning of your very willing large colon. And then we will post it to the hospital system’s Only Patients account. Please sign this “HIPPA” form (wink) giving us permission to do that.”

How did a team of people get inside of me?

It started with an innocent phone call. A phone call with scheduling at a teaching hospital two hours away who told me even though I’ve been coughing up acid nightly I’d need to wait ten months to see a PA because the doctors are over a year out. I insist I need to see someone quickly!

My assigned PA walks into the exam room with joggers and an abundance of confidence youth affords. I can’t wait for him to tell me how he’s going to cure my acid reflux since Tums and 10 years of Omeprazole haven’t done the trick.

We do a little of the medical small talk. How are you? Well great, except for why I’m here. Do you come here often? More and more every year! Okay, let’s look at your chart.

PA: Have you gained weight?

ME: Oh, so you noticed (flutters lashes).

PA: Have you vomited at any point in the past few months?

ME: Yes. A few times. Buuuuut I should probably tell you I saw Post Malone’s Big Ass Stadium Tour a couple of weeks ago where I had four big-ass stadium-size warm Michelob Ultras, two hazy IPAs, a bourbon and ginger beer, two large pieces of hot honey pepperoni pizza and some kettle chips in the nine hours prior to vomiting. I’m sure it was like Lollapalooza down there. (Chuckles uncomfortably. Joke did not land.)

PA: Oh. (Types something in the chart. He’s totally not interested in me.)

ME: And then I threw up Saturday morning. But it was like I threw up an entire pot of dark roast coffee with some grinds.

PA: Really? Like coffee, huh... (more typing). Have you had any issues with your bowel movements?

We look at each other for a long moment. How honest do you want me to be, Joggers? What kind of relationship are we going to have? I decide to go for it.

ME: Okay, so I don’t normally talk about this stuff, especially with a dude, but yes, things have really changed up in the last few months. I’m finding that (redacted) and it appears to be (redacted) and even worse it’s (redacted).

PA: (pales) Okay…

ME: And it looks like (redacted) and I’m finding that during the day I (redacted) and there’s this gross (redacted)…

PA: Um, okay, I think I’m getting the picture...

ME: But this isn’t NORMAL, like I usually (redacted) and I was pretty concerned when I had to (redacted).

PA: Wow. Alright. Yeah. All of that plus the dark brown vomit makes me think we need to do an endoscopy. You may have an ulcer. And we always need to check for cancer with your history. Or at least Barrett’s Esophagus. Maybe it’s your stomach valve weakening? Definitely bleeding going on. Maybe a blockage….?

He suddenly realizes he’s getting too excited ruminating out loud on what it could be and I’m still in the room in these socks.

PA: Lots of options, but I’m sure everything is fine. Let’s look at scheduling and see when we can get you in.

See how I gave you a minute to turn that into a horrible sexual innuendo? It’s because I respect your humor and ability to be the worst version of yourself when you read this blog. You’re welcome.

I leave the office with a Deep Throat appointment a week later, feeling confident we’re going to tackle this fire-breathing gasoline-spewing dragon that lives in my esophagus. Together.

But then scheduling calls and says they accidentally assigned me to someone who doesn’t even do that procedure so they have to reschedule for later in the week and my confidence dissipates.

I was definitely going to be one of those people you hear about who go in for a nose job but wake up missing half a leg. Sigh.

You aren’t an ADITW subscriber yet? It’s free. You get the freshest content delivered to your inbox. It’s like if Dominoes opened your door, walked to your couch, and put the pizza on your lap. I WANT TO PUT THE PIZZA ON YOUR LAP. FOR FREE.

But I don’t sell your emails or your kidneys. It’s so the hosting site knows that the three of you and my mom are actually interested in getting my content, and then I win a faster ride up Algorithm Mountain, and not because people are looking for that old porn site.

…when strangers shove things down my throat and stretch my esophagus and I take a pic where everyone wants to be included but all hide their name badges. (Hi ladies.)

HOUSEKEEPING NOTE: One of the three of you subscribed and wasn’t getting the emails. She checked her junk (tee hee) and voila! Menopausal email.

SECOND HOUSEKEEPING NOTE: Another of the three readers said she was sad because I said VERY CLEARLY she couldn’t share the blog, and I said, “You lying skank, that’s not true.” Because I said you can’t TALK about the blog. But do I want you to whore this thing out like it’s prom night? ABSOLUTELY.

Please do one or more of the following things for yourself, and then coerce a bunch of other people to do it, too:

Until Wednesday when I’m in your inbox, if you know what I mean.
If you’re my age, there’s PLENTY of room in there.