We were headed for Dollywood Splash Country on Saturday the 8th, after Katie's game. We stopped at the Golden Arches, and headed for Pigeon Forge. Shortly after my last sip of soda, I began to feel some minor discomfort in my tummy. "Must be gas," I thought. The pain seemed to be traveling, though, which was disconcerting, to say the least. It wasn't long before I had decided that I would call this the most painful gas attack I had ever had; but it soon became worse. I could feel a dull but increasing pain in my back- as if I had been struck there, about where my kidneys were. Even then, I didn't know. we pulled off at an exit. Perhaps, I thought, a trip to the restroom might help things. I visited the nastiest bathroom between here and Pigeon Forge. Did it help? Well, now, not only was I nauseated and in pain, but my children were inquiring about the mysterious "candy machines" in the bathroom. I wandered off into the bushes outside, calling for my carroty friend "Ralph." Afterwards, it occured to me- "Hey! I just threw up! I'll bet it was just food poisoning from the Arches." This is what I told myself as we climbed back into the van. I was fooling myself. By the next exit, we were pulling off, and I was now dizzy from the pain. I went into the much cleaner Shell Station bathroom, after purchasing Rolaids, water, and a rosary. Still nauseated, still in pain, and now with my head spinning, I laid down on the cool bathroom floor, and propped my feet up on the toilet, reasoning that the last time I had felt nauseated, I felt much better with my feet propped up. Not only did I not feel better, but now I was wondering whether this constituted some sort of invitation in the homosexual bathroom encounter community. With all the news that had just broken recently, I just knew that someone would walk into the bathroom and call the cops. Actually, someone did enter the restroom. I said, "Don't mind me; I'm just sick as a dog." He took one look at me, and said, "Oh, okay." and left. I crawled to my feet. I rejoined my family outside, convinced my wife I wasn't having a heart attack (I'm a little overweight- a little! And everytime my stomach hurts, it's a heart attack! Sheesh!) and we got in the van, turned around and headed for home. After a final stop at a rest stop (which wasn't very restfull) Tabby took over to drive us home. She wanted me in a hospital; I didn't want to look at another emergency room bill. We struck a bargain: If I still felt bad by the time we reached our exit, I would let her drive me to the ER. About halfway there I became sick. You have permission to laugh: All this time I have been hurting, dizzy, and nauseated to the extreme, but now I became sick? Well, I did. I had Tabby pull us to the side of the highway, and clutching an Exit sign I became sick. Exorcist sick. "Oh, look, there's my spleen," sick. As I stood/wobbled there, I heard cars honking their horns as they sped past. It's amazing what some people can get behind. So, a few painful miles later, I end up at the ER. I forgot my glasses, so all I had were my perscription sun glasses. I must say I cut a strange figure- hospital gown, Maui Jim sunglasses, pale, death-like appearance. After a variety of minor ER humiliations, including but by no means limited to a couple of shots in my posterior, A nurse came in and happily announced that I was pregnant with a three millimeter kidney stone! Lying there in bed, as the drugs kicked in, I experienced first hand how physical pain was emotionally and physically exhausting. It hit me, as I lost conciousness, that now I had an appreciation for the sick and hospitalized I called on. I always tried to keep my visits short, on the grounds that sick patients are tired patients, but now I had information first hand! It was a little ironic, how my weakness and helplessness made me excited about how I did ministry.......