2001-08-23 - 11:13 p.m.

Time Stands Still

There is this problem that I have occasionally that I may have alluded to before.

One of the side effects of the Diabetes medicine is that I have occasional bouts of diarrhea. It's not a subject that I like to talk about, obviously. Before I met Lily, it severely limited my movements (oh, there is a terrible pun in there) but I thought that the problem was pretty much in the past.

However recently it has resurfaced. Once again I have to live my life always within sight of a bathroom.

It makes like an adventure, and not a nice one either.

Today I had a plan: I'd drop my chess column off at the newspaper, get myself some lunch and then do some grocery shopping. It seemed pretty simple at the time.

I turned in my column at the newspaper, and then headed to the south side of Frown Town where one of my favorite eateries was. However, even as I left the newspaper offices I was not feeling well. I was downtown, about 1/3 of the way to my destination when I suddenly knew I had to head home at once.

I got back to the Hamster Palace without incident, and after relaxing for twenty minutes or so, I felt better again. So I decided to try to get myself lunch again.

The problem is that there really is very little worthwhile on the north side of Frown Town - most of the stores are on the south side, about a 12-15 minute trip from my house.

I had myself a nice relaxing lunch, which for some reason is something that I really enjoy. Lily thinks I am crazy to drive so far to go to the same places over and over again.

After I finished my lunch the next part of my plan was to do a little grocery shopping - nothing terribly serious but we were out of some staples.

However I'd only been on the road a minute or so when I felt awful again. It became imperative that I get home quickly, so I drove past the supermarket I usually go to. However, a few miles later I felt better and I decided to stop at a market I usually avoid to pick up those few items that we needed. The idea of going out again was so unappealing that I decided to risk picking up the handful of items that we needed.

There are two competing chains of supermarkets in our area. The one we usually shop at is called Hannaford, and the other is called Price Chopper. While Price Chopper is locally based, their stores seem dirtier, the clientele seems shabbier, and the help seems... well, less helpful. Lily and I have taken to calling them Ghetto Choppers. Every time I shop at one of them I always seem to have a negative experience, but that mainly seems to be because the markets are understaffed.

Anyway, I ducked into this Price Chopper and picked up the things I needed at top speed. I had only nine items, so I pulled up to the nearest express lane. Although I felt fine when I entered the store, now that I had stopped I started to feel lousy again. My guts began to twist and turn and sweat began to bead on my brow.

I was a little wrapped up in how I was feeling, but I gradually began to be aware of something. THE LINE WAS NOT MOVING.

There were three people ahead of me. The lady at the head of the line seemed to be requiring some sort of special service, so the cashier was waiting for the manager. There were also a bunch of coupons involved. The cashier at this particular register looked like she was bored to death and the look on her face said that her mind was clearly somewhere else as she mechanically (but very SLOWLY) rang trough the lady's purchases.

I tried very hard to concentrate on the magazine rack. Isn't it odd how every issue of Cosmopolitan looks like every other issue?

The cashier was through ringing the second person through, but still the line was not moving. To my annoyance I noticed that this new customer was a woman with iron-gray that clearly seemed to be retarded. While the cashier stared off into space this woman reached into her handbag and took out a little wallet. She then pulled some coupons out of the wallet and handed them to the checkout girl. The checkout girl scanned the coupons and then the woman carefully put the little coupon wallet back in her handbag, then closed it again. Then she opened the handbag again, and took out another little wallet - this one had money in it. She then carefully counted out the bills then handed them to the cashier. Then she carefully closed the wallet, put it back in the handbag and then closed the handbag. She then RE-OPENED the handbag and took out a change purse...

All of this fumbling with purses and wallets seemed to be happening with the utmost slowness and deliberation, like these tasks were death-defying acts that required total concentration.

Meanwhile, I felt like I was dying. My guts were churning, and I was trying desperately to keep from crapping my pants. However, I had the impression that if I DID crap my pants I wouldn't be the first person to do so in this store, in fact, I doubted that I'd even be the first person TODAY.

Time seemed to be standing still. Was my torment making things seem slower than they really were?

The woman immediately in front of me turned around and gave me an annoyed but conspiratorial look. This look said: Do you believe this crap? Okay, so I wasn't the only one who thought things were going frustratingly slow.

Finally it was my turn, and my transaction went through quickly. I paid for my groceries and walked out to my car as quickly as I could manage. I drove home as quickly (yet carefully) as I could manage.

When I got home Lily gave me a cheerful hello, but I practically bowled her over in my dash for the bathroom. Ah, blessed relief.

And this stuff used to happen all the time.

You know, sometimes I get the feeling that this intestinal upset isn't a side effect of my Diabetes medicine, but an intended result. People with Diabetes are supposed to watch their diet, and this damn medicine makes me regret eating anything at all.

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