On Sunday I had organised for D, E and Small E to visit, as well as Christian, M and the boys. They were to turn up around four thirty or so. At 4pm Small Z vomited. She is not the vomiting type, but I assumed it was something that she’d eaten… there’s quite a bit of goat poo in the bachyard, and she is fascinated with it – probably because M and I both scream ‘yuck yuck YUCK!!’ when she picks up a pellet, which makes her laugh and laugh.
Anyway, she continued to vomit every hour or two for almost the next twelve hours. Vomited through the barbeque, which kind of took the zing out of our attempt at sociability. Poor Small Z was very amiable about her situation. She just became a bit unhappy a few minutes before each spew, and then, once it was over, would flop for a while until she got her beans back. On Monday, my mum looked after her and she was still out of sorts and had developed a fever.
She threw up all over the kitchen floor just after 4pm and I took her down to see a doctor, just to make sure it wasn’t anything weird. Nope. A virus. Gah. And a high temperature. She was back to powering on five cylinders on Tuesday…and that’s when M and I started to feel the quease. It hit M first. He had to go to an ophthalmologist and said he barely restrained himself from coating the man in a technicolour yawn. Ewwww. Although, I suppose, it would have made the consultation cost a little more understandable…
When M is sick he either becomes malleable and lovely to look after like a small koala, or he becomes half man/half paranoid freak, whizzing in between trying to keep a stiff upper lip and thinking I’m annoyed with him because I haven’t showed the illness that he’s trying to ignore enough respect. It’s pretty much a no win situation from wherever I’m unlucky enough to be standing.
By about 8pm Tuesday night he was shaking like he was freezing, and looking very pale around the gills. “Mind over matter!” I told him stoutly, noshing down on some leftover tuna casserole. I still felt some quease but was rising above it. Small Z and I went to bed. An hour later I couldn’t control my shuddering. Ohhhhhh. “MIND OVER MATTER!!” I shrieked sternly at myself, but it was impossible. My feet were blocks of ice. I truly felt as if I’d been struck by the plague. Thank god Small Z didn’t have the shakes with her vomit extravaganza, because I would have thought she was about to leave the building.
I finally got up out of bed, and met M in the hallway. “It got me,” I said pathetically. I applaud him now for not telling me it was all in my head, but I couldn’t applaud him then. Then, I had the unmistakeable taste of leftover tuna casserole and, with method in my madness, ran for the bath. M has now renamed the bath ‘The Vomitorium’. I clogged it. There was a lot more than tuna casserole in there once I had finished. I think it dated back to that morning’s fruit and yoghurt extravaganza, looked in at some eggs on toast and green salad (lunch), and definitely said hi to a couple of nori rolls from that afternoon. It was not pretty.
The reason that I couldn’t sing into the toilet? It’s too gross. I don’t think M or I have cleaned it since we moved here, and the thought of praying to that particular porcelain goddess, was enough to… well. You get the idea. M never saw his stomach contents. E emailed me later and said they had all been similarly afflicted, and that she had been sick. Twice. While D had remained non-ejecting. Maybe it’s a male thing. All I heard from Christian was that there was one son down to it, and probably one to go…
Thus, I spent today feeling extremely fragile. Hungover without the fun quota. Ate butter beans and some brown rice in the late afternoon and started slowly feeling a little more human. Small Z has now developed the kind of cold that sees her occasionally sneezing out a yellow nose sausage. It’s all fun around here.