My children are trying to kill me. For real this time.

In the doctor’s office today, there was a firestorm of flashbulbs going off over my head, and a few over my doctor’s as well.  We worked as a team and we figured out all my health problems, I think.  I hope.

A few weeks ago I had six viles of blood removed from my person, an ultrasound on my abdomen, and an x-ray on my lung, all to rule out a variety of ailments my doctor thought it probably isn’t.  Rule out the worst first.  And, luckily, it isn’t anything like pancreatic cancer or diverticulitis or spleen-e-itis or whatever bad things happen to your spleen.  It isn’t an ulcer or gall stones.  It isn’t really anything.  Or so the tests would have us believe.

But it isn’t nothing.  Yes, it’s frustratingly sporatic and fleeting, but it’s cripplingly painful and most definitely something.  So we started brainstorming.  Well, he started brainstorming.  I was all “Hey!” and “You know what!?!” and “Look at me!  I’m being helpful!”

“From how you describe the location and the severity of the pain, it almost sounds like a muscle spasm…”




“Exactly!  But muscle spasms are usually stress-induced, and these occur after you eat, right?  We’re thinking eating-related, as opposed to food-related…”


“WAIT!  Did you say ‘stress’ and ‘eating’ in the same sentence?  I eat every meal with my kids and, well, you’ve met my kids.  Need I say more?”


“Ah ha!  Very stressful.  So, let’s go with the assumption that these are stress-induced muscle spasms…”

“…caused by my kids.”

“Well, caused by stress.”

“…brought on by my kids.”

[blank stare]


[blank stare]

“So, what you’re saying is, Doc, is that my kids are trying to kill me.  And they’re bloody brilliant!  I always knew they’d make fantastic serial killers.  They’re killing me with stress!  It’s genius!  They’re creating an environment in which my body is compelled to eat itself from the inside.  Awesome.  If it wasn’t so evil, I’d be proud.”

Maybe that last part of the conversation never happened.  Or maybe it did.  Maybe it just happened in my head.  Whatever.  Semantics.  Not the point.  The point is my kids are trying to kill me.

The Great Doc prescribed me some muscle relaxants (party at my house!) and taught me some breathing techniques to help eleviate the pain and control the spasms. 

I’m incredibly psyched that I’ve got the tools to hopefully deal with this better than I do now.  I’m ecstatic that it isn’t one of the many, many horrific possibilities Google tried to convince me was a perfect fit.

But I’m sad that my kids are trying to kill me already.  They’re so young.  I thought I’d have so many more years before they’d want me dead.


11 thoughts on “My children are trying to kill me. For real this time.

  1. Maybe you could just…eat without them? Not like you HAVE to go home for lunch. And you could do like we do, occasionally, and eat dinner after they got to bed (just have a snack when you get home).

    Of course, then you don’t get to have drugs. And drugs are fun!

    • It’s not the EATING. It’s the stress. It’s just a coincidence that meals at my house are stressful. Even if I don’t eat with them, I still have to be around them when they’re eating. Basically, there’s no getting away from it.

  2. Think Stewie Griffin – from the womb.

    Alas, I’m pretty sure we don’t TRY to kill our parents, we just end up in that situation for one reason or another. And at 4 (or other equally fragile single digit year) years old, not having alphaghetti for the 5 quadrillionth time is TOTALLY a good reason to drive you to your grave early…


  3. It will be interesting to see what you write once you’re on the good drugs. Kids, smarter than we give them credit for.

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