Originally written August 2026
Last month, while watching something on YouTube, the algorithm recommended a video about how to stay healthy in your 50s.
Naturally, I clicked on it.
I thought, Okay, what else have I missed, apart from the hundreds of things already on my list?
The man explained that fibre is important because it slows the absorption of sugar into the bloodstream and feeds the good bacteria in our gut. He also said that if we eat mostly processed food, our poor gut bacteria have nothing to feed on.
Now, feeding people is my love language.
So naturally, I felt sorry for my gut bacteria.
Apparently, I had been neglecting them.
So I went crazy with fibre.
I knew I was supposed to be careful because of my diverticulosis, but in my brilliant scientific reasoning I thought:
Well, if the gut bacteria live in the large intestine, surely they’ll eat the fibre before it gets anywhere troublesome.
Problem solved.
Except I think my gut bacteria were on a diet, because they clearly did not eat all the fibre I had so thoughtfully provided for them.
Of course, I ended up with a diverticulitis flare-up.
I called emergency services for an ambulance.
Three hours later, a paramedic rang and explained that they were extremely busy. She asked whether someone at home could drive me to Emergency instead.
I told her I would rather wait at home because I couldn’t get comfortable anywhere, and I certainly didn’t want to spend hours sitting in an emergency waiting room in pain.
She warned me the ambulance might take eight hours.
“That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll wait.”
Seven hours later, a paramedic finally arrived.
But apparently there was a far more urgent matter that needed clarification before we dealt with my abdomen.
He looked at a picture in our house and asked:
“Is that the real Brad Pitt or wax?”
Seriously? 
Apparently my diverticulitis could wait.
First, we needed to establish the authenticity of Brad Pitt.
When I got to hospital, everyone immediately became concerned about my heart rate.
I told them not to worry.
“It’s normal for me.”
They worried anyway.
In fact, they categorised me as a medical emergency.
The doctor ordered a scan, and because I was attached to an ECG monitor, a nurse had to accompany me.
While I was inside the scanner, the radiologist suddenly called out:
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I said.
As soon as they pulled me out, both the radiologist and the nurse rushed towards me.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I said again, now wondering why everyone seemed considerably more worried about me than I was.
The nurse asked if I could stand.
So I stood up and casually started walking towards my bed.
At exactly that moment, a group of medical staff rushed into the room.
They looked at the nurse.
They looked at me.
They looked at each other.
Then somebody asked:
“Is it done?”
It turned out that during the scan, my heart rate had dropped to 36, so the nurse had pressed the MET call.
Unfortunately for the dramatic entrance of the Medical Emergency Team, by the time they arrived, their medical emergency was already walking herself back to bed.
After I finally managed to get some sleep, another doctor came to see me.
She asked whether I felt my life was in danger.
I was confused.
I’d had diverticulitis flare-ups before. Painful, yes. But I had never considered one an immediate threat to my life.
Then I noticed something.
She kept looking at my arms.
My very bruised arms.
And suddenly I thought:
Ohhhh.
I think they thought I might be a victim of domestic violence.
So I explained that the culprit was actually one of their own doctors.
He had been absolutely determined to prove that he was very good at taking blood.
Unfortunately, I think it may have been his first encounter with veins that were playing hard to get.
Every time he found one, it collapsed.
He tried again.
Another one collapsed.
By the end of it, both my arms and hands were covered in bruises.
So there I was:
admitted for diverticulitis,
triggering a MET call because my heart rate dropped to 36,
possibly being investigated as a domestic violence victim,
and explaining that Brad Pitt was, in fact, not standing inside my house.
All because I wanted to feed my gut bacteria.
The moral of the story?
I don’t care anymore.
My gut bacteria can starve.
They have already caused me enough inconvenience. 
Stories Along the Way 