This past week I suddenly and inexplicably fell ill and my body decided it should try to expel everything in it for about 24 hours straight. It was horrible. Tuesday started out like any other day…slept in late, woke up and watched some Grimm, scrounged around for some food. I came across some chicken in the fridge that had been in there for a few days and had already been open, but it smelled alright so I decided to go for it. Now I’m not blaming the chicken, but…it was the last (and only) known substance to enter my body. If I could bring back the chicken and it’s packaging for questioning, I would.
I baked some chicken early afternoon, greedily swallowed it down, and promptly fell asleep. Nothing wrong with a mid-day snooze..except I remained asleep until about 7pm when a phone call from Francis roused me just in time to remind me that I was meant to be at quiz night with him. I jumped out of bed and rushed out the door as soon as I could. On the walk to the casino I realized something was wrong; my stomach had tied itself up in knots, my head began spinning, and my body temperature couldn’t make up its mind. I wrongly assumed these were merely side effects of waking up too quickly and foolheartedly continued. The walk only takes about 10 minutes, yet when I think back I can’t remember actually walking into the casino. I remember sitting with Francis, his mother, and a couple of family friends. They had very generously bought be a glass of chardonnay which was sitting at the table waiting for me when I arrived. I thanked them as I sat down and inwardly assured myself, there is nothing wrong with you. You don’t feel like you have to throw up, you feel fine. You can do this.
When you try to assure yourself that you don’t have to throw up, you are obviously not feeling fine. The quiz began, and I kind of sat through it all (I think I even contributed an answer or two), but I wasn’t really…present. I think at one point I tried to drink the wine but my stomach wasn’t having any of that. As the minutes ticked by I got progressively worse, and by the second round I began my own rounds of going to the bathroom to sit on the floor in the stall and dry heave over the toilet while half falling asleep in a cold sweat. After going to the bathroom about 8 times I finally managed to puke up the only thing I had really eaten that day…chicken. All I really remember from that quiz is sitting with the group, stubbornly and stupidly willing myself to have a good time. I couldn’t even see straight but was determined to stay for the entire two hours it would take to finish this quiz. I was practically passing out at the table yet at the same time assuring everyone I was fine (clearly, I wasn’t. I’m pretty sure they figured that out fairly quickly).
After the quiz was over Francis asked me if I wanted to go out with him and our friend Jess. I couldn’t do it. I felt so horrible and ill that all ll I wanted to do was crawl into a dark corner and die. I said I would walk home but they insisted on giving me a ride. It’s probably a good thing they did too, because I’m fairly sure if I had attempted walking it would not have ended well. I kind of remember getting dropped off and stumbling into the house and finding my way to my bed where I collapsed in a heap of sweat and agony. My stomach was twisting and writhing and I curled up into a ball in an attempt to stop both the pain and vomit.
If I had the chance to just lie there in my bed and not move I might have been able to keep everything down. Unfortunately for me, I had one stomach groan to warn me of my impending moments of shame and humility. Diarrhea decided at that moment to hit and I rushed to the toilet. As I sat there expelling my bowels my body decided now was the perfect time to send more of my insides up my esophagus. I had to cut my toilet time short and flushed as I turned around. I half collapsed to the ground and, practically hugging the toilet bowl, began retching. Since there was nothing else in my stomach nothing was coming up other than a thick, yellow bile and random bits of leftover chicken. I was immobilized in that dry heaving limbo -part of which I’m sure was caused by the smell of my own excrement that I had just moments ago deposited and watched swirl away. There are few things more disgusting than crouching face first into your toilet to puke after just pooping.
Not only was I curled on the floor with my pants around my ankles and giving my offerings to the porcelain gods in the form of my own stomach lining, my diarrhea had not yet completely passed and decided to kick up again. I was mid heave when this happened and as a result I had to just sit there, trying my best to clench my cheeks together as my body strained and I had a moment of very real fear.
I am going to shit on the floor.
Ladies and gentlemen, I am incredibly pleased to inform you that it did not come to that. It took all my willpower to keep it together as I sat slumped over the toilet in a fevered mess, trying to decide that to do. The nausea had all but passed for the moment and I decided that if it came down to it I would probably rather puke on myself than poop on the floor, and the crisis was averted. Let me tell you though, I came uncomfortably close…if I had waited even 3 more seconds this story would have had a much more embarrassing ending.
The rest of the night was spent in bed, wishing I had never eaten that damn chicken. I ventured out once to get some food and my body was so weak I had to support myself by sliding across the walls so I wouldn’t fall over. I managed to stomach a piece of bread and an apple between moments of unconsciousness. Thankfully it was only a 24 hour bug and I am back up and running now! Will try to post more soon.
PS-Maia just looked at me incredulously and said, “I can’t believe you’re posting in your blog about how you almost shit on the floor.” I have no shame.