I’m working on a normal-length post about something more important than what I’m about to document, but since an … inspiring(?) event has transpired in the meantime, I find myself spontaneously moved to write.
I mean, how could I not inform you that a Ketocal explosion recently took place in my hospital room?
“Explosion” is, I’ll admit, a little hyperbolic. Only a little, though. Ketocal was soaked through my duvet and splattered on my shirt. It pooled in small Ketocal-y puddles on the linoleum floor. It somehow made it to the closest wall and dripped in what resembled high-calorie tear stains. Much cleanup was required.
This is where I should probably interrupt myself to tell you what happened, lest you’ve already begun composing outraged e-mails to the manufacturer of my liquid medical supplement complaining about faulty Ketocal packaging. (You are that invested in my recovery process, right?)
That’s the strange part: I can’t figure out exactly what caused these Ketocal fireworks. I do know that I upturned a near-empty case over my bed to dislodge the last few drinks stuck in the bottom. One slipped out easily; the other decided to put up an impressively sticky fight.
Maybe this is an analogy for the messiness of trying to gain weight while also experiencing seizures and postictal psychosis. More likely, this particular Tetra Pak of Ketocal happened to hit a sharp edge at a very unfortunate angle—in other words, it was nothing more than a freak Ketocal accident.
My room, in case you’re wondering, still has the vague aroma of vanilla and recovery.
De Morbo Sacro: Life and/with Epilepsy 