[rearview mirror] second week of august.

One of the best parts of having a blog is easily looking back on what you were doing this same time in years past.

Apparently August likes to bring a lot of drama with it. Also, I'm apparently never single in August

Three years ago I put an offer in on a house. That was a first. (Hint: I didn't get that house, and was heartbroken. It all worked out perfectly in the end though)

Two years ago I was positive I was exactly where I was supposed to be (Hint: two weeks later I was freshly heartbroken, and a week after that brought the plot twist of a lifetime.  It all worked out perfectly in the end though)

Last year I was chasing the racer, experiencing what I thought would become the new norm. (Hint: that ended less than a year later. Hey - it will probably all work out perfectly in the end though. Of course!)

My home away from home

In true Chelsea fashion, I ended up at my home away from home yet again this past weekend.

You see, for the better part of last week I wanted to die every time I ate. My stomach would just go wack and hurt so.damn.bad. Naturally, I threw back some tums and sucked it up. As I'd be clutching a pillow to my gut, tightly curled up in the fetal position.

On Friday I thought maybe it was alcohol causing it, so I decided not to drink all weekend. And I still wanted to die. But the pain would fade every time, and being the stubborn little lady I am - I kept on truckin' without much of a second thought.

Saturday morning my friend picked me up and we headed out to the track to enjoy a little pre-Brickyard fun. We grabbed breakfast on the way, and walked over to the track. Stupid Move #1: I ducked into the gas station to grab some pills because my stomach hurt so bad I was struggling to walk. I figured if I took some antacids it would ease up.

We proceeded to get our pit passes, and head into the track. As we're standing there talking to a car owner I'm eyeing my surroundings trying to spot the nearest restroom. I duck out, nearly at a run, and start dry heaving as soon as I lock myself into the stall.

A good thirty or so minutes later, after I've puked every ounce of ANYTHING out of my body, I still have the most excruciating pain in my abdomen. I regain as much composure as I can, and go back to find my friend. It doesn't take long before he tells me he's taking me home and we trek back to his truck.

The thing is, I couldn't even walk. I literally sat on a curb and waited for him to go get the truck come pick me up.

I got home and resumed the fetal position on my couch. Except it wasn't easing up, if anything it was getting worse. I finally threw the white flag and called my dad and asked him to come get me. And he ushered me off to those all too familiar emergency room doors at the nearest hospital.

An IV, some pain meds, a bazillion labs later, they tell me that the only thing that didn't look normal were my slightly elevated white blood cell levels. They tried to toss it aside as nothing, really, handed me three prescriptions (for nausea, an antacid, and a pain pill) and sent me on my way.

Something just doesn't quite add up for me, and some friends have given insight. Fingers are being pointed at ulcers, gallbladders and pancreases. I really don't know... I do know, however, that I'm hoping that was the last time I don that gown this year.

(Updated:  Lo & behold... glug goes the ol' gallbladder )