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Once on my way back from Mexico, I needed one then, a doctor, a pill, something.  I’d even made it home, but couldn’t make it through the door.  Montezuma’s Revenge, powerful enough to drop me down, falling to my knees in the mud, and making a mess of my front porch.  Brian carried me inside to the bathroom, retching.  I managed to get out of my clothes that he stored in a plastic bag, which I later threw in the trash.  And then crawling into the tub, Brian turned the shower on, and brought me a trashcan, a bar of soap and a towel, then went out to buy Gatorade and Campbell’s Soup.  My father stopped by after he’d gone, brought some Pepto and shook his head, “this is exactly why your mother will never get me to go.”