Yeah I know. I am cursed. Like, really really cursed. I had just gotten over throwing my back out. Meaning that I no longer had to make a 'bending over plan' and didn't have to sleep in weird ass positions designed to keep my spine straight. So to celebrate, my immune system apparently decided it was taking a vacation.
And it didn't tell the rest of my body about it.
So the night before my internal apocalypse I noticed my stomach was upset. However, having had stomach problems before in my life, I chalked it up to the usual stress/caffeine/painkillers/witches and went to bed. Except that when I woke up in the morning, I still felt queasy. Of course this is when we were staying at Scott's parents house so we could commute to our jobs which were taking place in downtown DC that weekend. So when I was faced with the choice of not going to work and losing that money that I really, really freaking needed I opted to chew some Pepto and get on with my day. Which worked great.
Until we reached the parking lot at the Metro.
At that point my body was all, “oh you thought you were going to work, ha ha well you're not sucker!” Which was followed by vomiting. Lot's of vomiting. At that point I told Scott to go on without me, and to make the money for both of us now, which you know he totally hadn't been doing already because my back was fucked up, while I called Scott's dad and told him to come get me. Which took him an hour because traffic was super fuck all god awful. Then on the trip back I looked around his car and noticed a distinct lack of things to throw up into.
Which is how I ended up hyperventilating into a cooler for an hour and a half.
Well, Scott's dad was wonderful, making jokes and trying to take my mind off it, and reassuring me that no, really it was not that big of a deal that I called him to come get me in DC weekend traffic. While I kept apologizing and whining about how all of a sudden all my joints hurt and I was cold.
In case you were wondering, that is the moment I realized I was in some deep shit.
I also at some point when we were awash in a sea of brake lights, told him a lovely monologue about everything I had ever loved about his guest bathroom. I also saw a license plate with the word POOP4 spelled out on it. I considered it an omen.
When we returned I made a nest of towels on the bathroom floor, grabbed some water, and shut myself into the bathroom. Where I pretty much remained for the rest of the day. And when I said that it was an apocalypse in my intestinal track, I meant it. So I made a deal with myself, if I could keep water down, then I would not have to go to the expensive ass ER. Unfortunately that was harder then it seemed. Every forth of a bottle I drank would come straight back up, as though my stomach was some sort of drive through. “I'll just take some stomach virus and some hydrochloric acid to go thanks!” I could imagine the water shouting at my stomach lining before turning back the way it had come.
Needless to say I was pretty fucked the shit up.
Luckily I learned that right after vomiting I found I had a 'magic window' of about five minutes where what I put down there stayed down there. As long as I didn't move my head. Or stand up. Or think too loudly. By that night I was able to drink Gatorade and my fever had broke, but operation Eating Some Motherfucking Crackers was doomed to a spectacular 4am failure.
The next day we went home. Luckily, I seemed to be past the evacuate entire intestinal track like it's a goddamned fire drill part, but instead I had moved on to the the worst stomach cramps ever.
The first thing we did when I got home was crawl into bed in the fetal position and wait for them to go away. Which of course they didn't. Also Scott became quite alarmed by my yelling stuff like, “why won't it stop hurting!?” and the fact that my total food intake for the past 48 hours was 6 crackers, so he made me a doctors appointment.
Which I drug myself to and got a some anti-nausea pills. So now I am happy to report that I can eat bland foods and have been steadily gaining energy, even though I still kinda feel like life has been taking baseball bats to my knee caps for two months.
So hopefully I've used up all my sickness and or injury cards for the whole year and it will only get better from here.
Either that or I am going to die soon.*
One or the other.
Keep your fingers crossed for me will you? Cause I think I need it.
*My tombstone will read “Here lies Holly- killed by a long string of bad luck. Also, diarrhea.”