Well intentioned as I have been, Days 11 and 12 on my road to Slayeriffic were washed out of me- in tide after horrifying tide of bodily fluids. Day 11 (Sunday) I woke half an hour before my alarm was due to go off and had just enough time to realize “something is Very Wrong” and to get a bucket.
The last time I was that sick, I was having fever dreams of my dead grandmother (who died quite simply of a “bad cold” in her sleep) and spent the next several hours shivering and burning and shivering on the couch, and working a few things out with God. No kidding. This time though, my makeshift church was definitely in the bathroom.
By the time I had the sense to wake up the Husband, it was about 10:30 and five hours of constant retching and high velocity evacuation of the other end (sorry, gross I know), I was already desperately dehydrated and all I could think of is what I learned about hypovolemic shock. I know how dramatic that sounds. But there’s “Sick” and then there’s “Sometimes, normal healthy people just DIE of this shit!”. I have so much more to live for! (still working out what all that is…)
So, Husband was appropriately concerned and ran to the nearest Qwik E Mart for my self prescribed Gatorade, ginger ale, and he dug around until he could find the gravol. And then he dragged one of the kid’s bunk bed mattresses into our awesomely large bathroom, put it down onto our fantastically heated tile floor, tacked a heavy towel over the window to block out the not-so-welcome bright daylight, and there I spent the next 12 hours trying not to die.
I had plans. I was supposed to go tanning and to the gym. I was supposed to go to my nieces birthday party. I was supposed to go to my boss’ house and have delicious German filled dumplings and that amazing orange cake she makes…
For a while there, I thought, “Maybe this was self sabotage”. I had been so smug about my 10 days in a row, and my Day 10 workout was pretty amazing. But then I succumbed to the Cheese. There was leftover pizza at work that morning, and I thought “what the hell, I’ve had worse for breakfast!”, and that night, there was more cheese… “I never eat cheese, I don’t get enough dairy”… I was hoping it was the pizza. I was hoping it was some sort of lactose poisoning… not that I was desperately looking to be at fault, only that, what’s worse than being violently ill? Oh, yes- Having to take care of your violently ill child. I would take that on myself a thousand times over to spare him any one time. So “please, please let it be the pizza…”
I finally made it down the stairs on my own that evening- about 8 pm. 14 hours after ground zero, I was weak, shaky, dizzy and every molecule of my body was aching. In spite of my attempts to rehydrate over the day, I was maybe running on 1/4 tank. My head hurt, my ribs felt like they had been pulled from my spine, my eyeballs were sticky. But I was alive. The boys had ordered pizza…
So, away we all go to bed. Husband gallantly volunteers himself to the sofa, and I climb into the sweet sweet embrace of my very soft bed with my very soft comforters and my very expensive pillows (oh, I’m not kidding- do yourselves a favor and go spend more than 50.00 on a pillow. You will love it.). And as I began to drift away I hear that sound no mother wants to hear- though, he’d already been instructed to “not bother your mother today” so the piteous wail I heard was addressed to “daaAAAAaaaD!!”. I was kindof hoping it was a spider. Or a boogeyman. Or an axe murderer…anything but four slices of partially digested pizza soaking into assorted bedding and stuffed animals. Nope. Pizzapocalypse.
Husband wanted to know “Can I throw all this in the wash like this?”. I gave him a bloodshot evil eye and said “Not unless you want to be picking pineapple chunks out of your socks for the next 6 weeks”… so he bravely gathered up the blankets and carnage and marched it downstairs to start rinsing it in the sink (heheh I would have thrown it outside to freeze and deal with in the spring! Brave!) and I dragged the mattress BACK into the bathroom , covered it in towels, and set about “Doing Sick the Right Way”. Alternating mini-doses of gravol and moderate fluids between “episodes”, and much comforting and moral support- I had the little guy ticking like a clock. Every hour on the hour *ack, sploosh* “MoooOOOM!”, then another crumb of gravol and a wet cloth and some more juice and another nap. repeat.
By the wee hours of the next morning, I was still exhausted, but feeling incrementally more human. The little guy was stable, the Husband was downstairs (I didn’t know then that he was already working his way into the porcelain abyss), and I had decided that “if surviving THAT doesn’t count as a workout or two, I don’t know what does”. As it was, Day 12 rose up behind dreadfully heavy clouds, and we all spent the day on our asses, recovering.
It seems at the moment that all is well. Or, well on its way to well. Day 13 I will be spending in the house (it’s 40 freaking below out there and the roads are shite anyway) disinfecting and doing laundry and disinfecting and doing more laundry. I will put on some music and my Dancey Socks and make like it’s a workout too. Tomorrow is another day. Back to school for the kid, back to work for me (and hopefully husband before he atrophies into a relief-shape of the sofa)…back to the gym… the upside… I lost 5 lbs. bahaha.