I'm flying to Canada on Sunday for the fishing trip with my Dad.

I've been thinking about it and it has been well over ten years since I've gone. I remember my last trip very vividly, and I must have been in junior high or early high school then.

I got really sick on the second day of the trip. Lots of vomiting. My uncles, most of whom are not exactly health care experts, had few ideas beyond, "Have you tried giving him 7Up?"

One of my uncles suggested I was constipated and gave me a laxative. So for the next day I was vomiting AND shitting.

At this point it was clear I needed to go to a hosptial. Or home. Or both. It was early in the week, though, a week they all looked forward to all year. No one wanted to leave.

"Luckily" some other guys at the fishing resort were heading back to Ohio and were willing to take me with them. To this day, I'm not really sure who these guys were or how they knew my dad and his brothers. I assume, they must have known them, though, right?

Regardless, dazed, I rode back to Ohio in the back of a van driven by two more-or-less strangers. My mom was not pleased.