Last night, I lay back in bed, hollowed, smote, knackered.
My body is beaded by sweat and radiates heat, yet I shiver and am too cold to leave any skin exposed, as my gut is audibly wrenched by the hand of some demonic bug.
My partner Alana demands of me, “Where’s the Monday blog?!”
“I’m ill!” I protest.
Gentle reader, I apologise profusely for the tardiness of this twice-monthly Monday blog.
My partner and I were struck down, smited if you will, by food poisoning.
After two nights of caustic distension and voluminous bilateral expulsion, the image of which no innocent reader really ought to have conjured on their midweek evening, I find myself recovered enough to sit up for extended periods, walk short distances (other than bed to toilet) – and write this blog post.
Here are a few chirpy tidbits, musings and reflections from a somewhat tiring three days – I know you will enjoy them 🙂
“I am actually so hard”
Alana was rudely awoken on Sunday morning 6am, and didn’t have any kind of respite from her torment until past 6pm. She was still very ill on Monday. My old man said to me that, for the first time in more than a year and a half of knowing her, he said hello but didn’t see Alana smile. The poor girl, back to work yesterday, is still not quite recovered.
Anyhoo, cry me a river as a play a micro-violin, what I want to say about Alana, is how she handled the whole undignified shebang: she would be suffering in some saddeningly debilitating state, sat on the toilet cradling a bucket whilst puking and crying, yet upon reentering the living room, she would do a little dance, smile her big beautiful trademark smile, and say several derivations of, “I am actually so hard” and “I’m a really good sick person”, etcetera, etcetera.
(Nota bene, for completeness, these inspirited moments were sandwiched by the loudest retching sounds I’ve ever heard and hoarse declarations of “I think I’m dying.”)
Alana said, “I like that I keep some humour when I’m ill.”
I replied, “It’s nice for me, too.” Frankly, it’s an awful drag being around a sick person with no sense of humour. It’s hard enough being around a person in good health who is devoid of humour. It was comforting to see that as ill as she was, she had a smile, if not on her face, in some aspect of her being.
“You’ve got through your hardest days,” Alana will often say to me, her eyes closing in a satirical mantra-like manner, but with an element of seriousness.
On Sunday she said that mantra without a semblance of satire.
“I don’t get ill”…
Going to bed with the worst of Alana’s illness all but over, mine was just beginning.
When Alana was ill, I had one of those idle thoughts we all sometimes think, ‘What if I were in that position? Would I do it different? Would I do it better or worse?’
As Alana writhed and squirmed, making the most voluble of retching sounds known to this earth, I thought I would probably suffer too, but I wouldn’t make such a fuss about it.
Phwoar, was I wrong.
It hit so fast.
It’s about 8pm, I have had two back-to-back personal training sessions, two hours training the senior amateur boxers at the club, I’ve eaten dinner and organised to have a deadlift ‘siege’ at 6am the following morning, so confident am I in my health.
It hit so fast.
I am lying back in bed, Alana and I are yapping away until one of us stops answering. I fall into a messy sleep, a feverish semi-conscious state, then comes a fit of yawning, my stomach increasingly swollen, my body overheating.
If you’ve known me long enough, you’ll have heard me say, “I don’t get ill.” By which is really meant, “I am seldom ill, and when mildly unwell deny I am so, and believe by radiating positivity and optimism I will maintain good health.” I was fighting this thing with all I had and it wasn’t working.
Alana, bless her heart, notices my discomfort and offers a comforting hand.
“Not my stomach Alana!” I growl at her, removing her hand, writhing sideways in pain.
Fast-forward and I am collapsed on the bathroom floor bathed in sweat and devoid of energy to return to either bedchamber or throne.
Turns out, if I was in the same position, when I was in the same position, I wouldn’t do things very much different.
Once I did return to the bedchamber, Alana asks, “Are you okay?”
“I think I’m ill,” I reply, as she chuckles, the most obvious answer to the most obvious question. “But I am far more ill than you were, you weren’t really ill, this is man-ill.”
Fever dream thoughts
A recurrent fever dream I had was missing appointments I had the next day, two of which I was particularly excited about, but I had not informed them ahead of time.
It was ironic that I couldn’t muster more than an hour or so of uninterrupted sleep, yet still experience myself over and over again missing appointments the following afternoon. The irony was totally lost on me, but is vaguely apparent to me now that I can walk and eat again.
Fever dream theme music
Playing over and over and over and over and over again in my head on my first night of fever dreams was I Wanna Be Like You, that endearingly upbeat and jazzy little ditty from The Jungle Book.
In particular, the jazzy improvisational scat singing near the end of the song, sung by the power hungry despot King Louie and the food hungry oaf Baloo, looping over and over again.
I’m blessed by precious few nightmares, but when I am, they are the same in character: a feeling that whatever feeling and experience I am having will never end, and there is some torturous entity dancing on the very nerves of my suffering. In this instance, some demon bug danced on and wrenched my stomach to a favourite tune of mine, now rendered temporarily unlistenable.
My little pal
There is an element of personality disorder when feverish.
I do not want to be left alone for a second, but the mere sound of your presence is jarring to me.
I want you to comfort me and make me feel better, but your touch is doing my nut in.
I am looking after a dog at the moment, the most beautiful gentledog, of 72 years by human equivalent, partially blind, a little bit grumpy, but adorable, and so loving.
He has not left my side for more than a few minutes this past few days, sleeping next to me (and on top, and underneath) whilst I waited out the bug demon.
Animal life and presence is so naturally and inexplicably calming.
This dog pongs relentlessly, he growls, he is a grump, but he has allayed my suffering considerably, and I thank him for it.
Gratitude
Last thing.
Last thing, but it should always be the first thing, and a thing present at all possible moments.
I am so grateful.
Much as I try to cultivate gratitude, I realise I take for granted my health and wellness.
Being smited for a few days is a gracious gift of experience, for on the other side of it, I can feel the gratitude, I can taste and smell it, I don’t need to cultivate it, it is just there.
I am grateful for getting better.
I am grateful for being ill.
But, do remember, I don’t get ill.
The Works and Chirps of a Guernseyman 