Sunday, October 07, 2012

Scenes from Gastroenteritis

Day one: you feel iffy, you have the sweats, you're not sure that omelette + doughnut lunch was a good idea at all. You are in the shops, about to try some clothes on and you feel a nasty rumbling in your stomach. You hurry to the changing rooms where you finally let out the fart that has been brewing, unaware that the shop assistant has FOLLOWED YOU IN to the cubicle. You were not expecting this and you do your best to hurry her out, although to be honest, you would think that the sulphuric stench that is only getting stronger would be enough to make her step on it. Strangely, she lingers. Like the fart.

Day two: lying in bed, you wonder whether to put the hot water bottle on your belly, which is being pounded against a rocky river bed by someone who really fucking hates laundry but is determined to get this lousy, pox-ridden stomach clean, or your legs, which are the playthings of a giant 8 year old bully with a penchant for Chinese burns, or your feet, which have been immersed in blocks of ice and are screaming out with cold. You start with your belly and work on a 60 second rotation system until the horse tranquillisers you took kick in and you pass out for 5 hours.

Day three: you drag yourself out of bed to try and eat some of the soup your husband has made for you. You haven't eaten in over 24 hours and just getting down stairs feels like a massive feat. You pour yourself a tiny bowl of parsnip and potato soup, add some water to make it a little less daunting, and raise a teaspoon full to your lips. It has spices in it. You cry. Big, heaving, ugly sobs at the dinner table. Then you consider divorce. Who feeds someone with gastric flu spicy soup? You continue to sob while your husband scrambles you some eggs. Once you've managed to eat them you realise that maybe you overreacted. Maybe.

Day four: bent double on the loo (it's your 43rd trip today), clutching your stomach in agony and whimpering at the unfairness of it all, two small people stand at your knees, leaning around to look at your arse and shout 'Yucky mama! Mama poo!' then run off laughing hysterically. You think maybe it's time to just give up and die.

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