Literally. On the second day of moving, I got out of bed and started packing a suitcase. Then I fell over and spent the next 12 hours in moaning agony while my intestines tried to kill me.
We spent most of the day at our friends', who happen to both be nurses. Between their expertise and Google, we determined I wasn't currently dying, although the possibility that I might start that process was not out of consideration. However, the possibility that I would wind up in the ER that night or the next day seemed likely.
This would have several consequences. First, obviously, we would miss our flight. As bad as that is, it was worse because Sara would have no place to go - our entire household had just been packed into a shipping container. It would mean I would miss my job interview the following week in Australia. And best of all, it would mean a trip to the hospital without medical insurance. My insurance had expired at the end of August, and I had decided not to file a bunch of forms and pay a thousand dollars for 2 weeks of protection.
The professional diagnoses were either the beginnings of diabetic ketoacidosis or food poisoning. Neither was a good fit, since I only had some of the symptoms of the former and Sara had eaten all the same foods the day before.
My highly subjective opinion was that it was emotional stress, my body's last desperate act of sabotage. Who would have guessed I had Al Queda in my guts? But by the morning I was fine, and the worst pain I suffered since then was 15 hours of airline seat padding. Reason prevailed, and my carefully considered will was carried out despite the howling of the partisan mob.
But to all of you left at home, you should know just how painful it was to leave you behind. Seriously painful. As in, where was my percocet?