You look up from your place on your knees on the bathroom floor. You’ve had a good streak going. Thirty-eight years of not having to be in the hospital. But something inside you hurts and you’re going to need help. You pour yourself down the toilet, ask the bacteria which way to the hospital, and reconstitute yourself in an empty men’s room stall in the hospital. You ignore the looks everyone gives you as you walk through the hospital, dripping wet, squeaking and squishing as you step and you tell the woman in the emergency room, “Something inside me is DRY!”