If you don’t want to read about vomit and poo, then stop here.
I have written this blog post so many times in my head, but it is only now that I have the energy to lift my fingers in the repetitive motion that they call typing. Let’s start at the beginning:
Sunday night we had some friends over for dinner. A lovely couple and they’re gorgeous kids. The kids frolicked in the yard, I made enchiladas with avocado salsa, the boys sank some suds and shot the shit, I caught up with my girl. All was good.
*insert jaws music here*
I kind of kept having to excuse myself to go to the ladies room. Sod it. Let’s call it what it is. It’s a TOILET. I thought I was just suffering the effects of my enthusiasm at Potato Appreciation Day and figured that I’d push through and I’d get over it.
Except that it got worse. My excursions to the toilet were fast out-weighing my time spent in company with my guests, I was getting the cold shivers and hot sweats, and feeling very weak. In the end I gave up on playing host (laying on the couch and watching from afar is not really acting the perfect host anyway!) and went to bed.
I lay in bed shivering, unable to get warm even with the electric blanket on, wearing trackies and a hoodie. I got up for another visit to the toilet, because I just couldn’t keep myself away from that bad boy. And then is was ON. Luckily I had the foresight to grab a bucket. I was a SHIT AND VOMIT FOUNTAIN. I think I may have even managed to look surprised mid-spew, as the fountain just did not stop. I have never, ever, in my living memory, had an experience like this one.
It reminded me of this:
(Pebble thought this video was hilarious. Mother of the Year, that’s me).
I went back to bed for more of the shivering, and found myself also reminded of my trip to Egypt in 2004. Ah, the memories.
I heard Paul say good bye to our guests sometime later. Minutes or hours I’m not sure. I did my fountain imitation a few more times in there somewhere. Paul put Pebble to bed. Paul went to bed. Somewhere before midnight the fountain became a trickle and I was able to get some sleep.
It’s all kind of hazy for a while. Paul got up, he said he was going to the toilet. Yeah, whatever, I pass out again. Sometime later I stirred and he’s still not in bed. I get up to check and he’s in trouble. He’s not quite a fountain yet, but it doesn’t look good.
I go back to bed, I don’t know if Paul returned and left again, or was gone the whole time, but I was woken by Pebble. She coughed. She coughed again. She vommed. I went into her room to find her on her hands and knees, pushing her hands through her own spew in the dark saying “dummy, dummy, dummy”. Great.
Somehow in that moment my own feeling of absolute crapola disappeared and I scooped her up, took her into the bathroom (thank goodness we have two toilets!) and cuddled her, ready to catch more spew. More came. Paul appeared from somewhere. He too had recovered enough to come to the rescue.
We sorted out the kid. Changed her clothes, cleaned her up, calmed her down. I took her to bed with me, Paul disappeared again. Pebble and I lay in the dark listening to the amazingly loud sound of Daddy’s retching.
“Daddy sick”, she said.
“Yes, Daddy sick. He’ll be ok”, I said.
She nodded and went to sleep. I checked on Paul once, he said he was ok (between retches) and I went to sleep too.
Morning came and Paul and I were limp and pale versions of ourselves. Somehow Pebble had survived the night without becoming a fountain herself. I think her mini-fountain was just the result of her coughing, and nothing to do with whatever Paul and I had. Thank GOODNESS for small mercies. Big mercies really. I can handle getting sick anytime, but I’d hate to see her suffer what we went through.
We called in a huge favour from Grandma, our hero. She picked Pebble up within half an hour and took her for the whole day. Paul and I slept until early arvo, with intermittent visits to the toilet (when would it STOP!?) then forced ourselves to get up clean the sheets, clothes, toilets, kitchen. We made everything clean and sparkly to avoid the kid getting sick. It was so exhausting! We did a little bit at a time, resting in between.
By evening I was able to eat a couple of bits of bread successfully, Paul was less successful in this venture. By morning today I am pretty much right as rain. I ate porridge for breakfast and a cup of tea. Paul is still in bed. The poor bugga is about half a day behind me, so hopefully he’ll be fine by tonight.
How have you survived gastro? Go on, give me all the gory details, I can take it.