*Similar warning as the last post, though reading back on it all, none of it was as graphic as I thought (or could have been), but I warn ye all nonetheless.*
Yep. That big burger took me down. WAY down. Back into a tailspin of all the fun bathroom stuff. I was on the toilet, beside the toilet. Hovering like a hummingbird, trying to make split second decisions, will I be going high or low for this round? I don’t know why I ate it. I knew it was bad. Perhaps delusions had settled in after more than three days without any nourishment…
Another issue that arose during those first few days of the sickness is the number of bathrooms we have in house. And that number is 1. So. You can imagine what it is like to need to live in that space so you can puke and shit yourself in peace and with ease, none of that moving around, back and forth to the bedroom stuff, and hear the knock-knock on the door. Followed by, Mommy I have to go pee!! Thankfully this is a situation in which I can utilize my puking pro skills. And pinch it (stop).
And not that I mean to bitch, but loss of income during these times is always a concern. In no way am I lacing up and climbing soap box mountain again, but the tea leaf reader I saw with MG last fall said April/May would mean BIG money for us. Yeah, sure.
The good news is most cases of viral gastroenteritis clear up in 3-5 days. Well, Day 4 was coming right up…we should see signs of improvement…right?
Saturday (aka Day 4) should have been a turnaround day. But it wasn’t.
Thankfully, hubby had skipped off early to work. A long shift that nicely cushioned a week full of income holes. Unfortunately, it wasn’t to last. The little one was much improved. I was not. Things were just as bad early Day 4 as they had been during parts of Day 2. It was awful. And the blood glucose (or sugars, as we call them) levels were all over the place. I sent a text. Hubby left work. And arrived home ready to take over.
Things were SO bad by the time he arrived that I decided to haul ass to the walk-in clinic. This was my first go at a clinic since we moved here; we were fortunate enough to be taken on as patients by my parents’ family doctor and for anything that has arisen we have gone there. But it was Saturday. And this was BAD. Too bad to wait. So off I went.
The clinic was a quick drive down the road. I love to drive. I am the driver in our little family (makes sense, since I did teach the hubs how to drive). It brings me peace. Someone out there is thinking it, so I will just say it, I like the control. Anyways. No matter how poorly I am feeling (unless it is low blood glucose levels, because that is both dangerous and illegal) I feel better behind that wheel.
The wait to see the doctor would be 45 minutes or so. I settled in, picked up one of those magazines littered with celebrities and full of stories so ridiculous discerning fact from fiction is nearly impossible, and chatted with others in the room. The bulk of my wait was spent with a two men. Both older than I, though neither by any great stretch, one from England and the other from New Brunswick. The conversation was colourful. And something I love so much about where we live now. People are not as friendly in the big city. And I had missed the general chit-chat amongst people.
When I saw the doctor I informed her, as I had the receptionist/nurse upon arrival, I am a Type 1 Diabetic (I have it quite visibly tattooed on my arm for crying out loud – this is relevant for later) and I am pretty sure I have viral gastroenteritis, but am concerned because there doesn’t seem to be any improvements, I have violent diarrhea and cannot stop vomiting. And the doctor did exactly what the nurse had done, stared blank faced at me with big brown eyes. At this point, in my mind, I roll my eyes. Doctor takes a deep breath and says to me, I can imagine your concern. Then gives me a quick check and sends me next door to have some tests done.
I express my thanks to the doctor and staff, grab my coat and pop next door to the lab. The timing of it all could not have been better. The lab would be closing in less than half an hour. Phew. I give a quick scan of the requisition form. Now. I am no doctor. However. I have more blood/urine/etc. tests done in a year than most people have in a lifetime. So. I am pretty good at figuring out what they’re looking for and how many vials they’re going to try and squeeze out. This time it was pretty routine. A couple surprising ones. Not too many.
When called I headed to an open stall, behind a teenaged girl who was having a horrible time (because she was scared), crying and holding her mom’s hand. I slid my sleeve up. And got ready. A lovely eastern European woman in her fifties took my blood. She laughed when I explained to her exactly why the pussy willow branch I have on my right arm is where it is. What I wasn’t prepared for was the two plastic bags filled with three large vials she handed me before my departure.
I knew based on the requisition form I was not going to be asked for a urine sample. But I must have missed this somehow. Stool samples? I almost burst…out laughing. Could you explain to me how someone in my – ahem – state is to provide THAT? Now. I have been poked. Prodded. Had procedures for no reason other than to have a look, so it really isn’t in my nature to be embarrassed about bodily functions and the like. But. I will save you all the embarrassing details that were explained to me. Blech.
End of Day 4, Welcome to Day 5
I returned home exhausted even though the whole adventure had only taken a couple hours. My body was just annihilated. Running on less than fumes. Could anything more really come out of me? Oh yes. Yes it could. And it did. Good thing hubby came home from work. Good thing I went to the walk-in clinic. Because this was clearly not going anywhere.
As soon as there was a hurling hiatus I changed my wardrobe and slipped into bed. Pail at the ready. And an unobstructed path to my throne.
A few hours later I woke feeling improved. Popped in the shower. Still okay. Attempted to resume some normalcy. But that resulted in shear and (g)utter(al) failure. The three soda crackers and sips of water I had consumed revisited with such a fury I felt assaulted. I vomited violently for several minutes. Then emerged, with far less of me than what entered, and cried to my hubby for a big t-shirt, absolved myself of taking my “night time needle” and once again dragged my sorry (more like sore-y) ass to bed.
Day 5 greeted me with a seriously bad low blood sugar episode (or crash, as we call it) at the fine hour of 4 am. The physicality of the vomiting, etc. combined with my inability to hold anything in (liquids included) had left me expectedly lacking in nourishment. But this was one of those crashes that just wouldn’t give up. And hubby was unusually wide awake and chatty. But suddenly it all caught up with us. Or at least with me.
And I can’t recall who passed out first.
6 thoughts on “Busted Guts: The Middle”
Holy, you should excuse the expression, CRAP! I’ve been reading this with concern for you. But since you have found the resources to blog about it, I must assume you made something of a recovery. I hope!
Ha ha. Thank you Maggie! I can find humour in just about anything. But this required a slight stretch, if not, in the very least a bit of distance between experience and reflection. Recovery is a slow, up hill battle. But progress is progress. Onwards and upwards, as they say. 😉
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I’m distracted from the horror by being blown away by your great tattoos–esp. the owl and pussy willow!
Awe, thanks. I have many (many!)…the owl and pussy willows are a tribute to my cat. In Japanese culture the owl is a protector, an animal that watches over you, and well, I have dubbed my furry friend “pussy willow toes” so it just seemed fitting that they make it in there too! And, I just sit there, my extraordinarily talented friend does the rest. 😉
You’re right about the talent!