Sunday caught me by surprise. At 4am, I found myself firing up a podcast to pass the time as I sat on the porcelain throne. I had jumped out of bed with urgency enough times it was more efficient to camp out in the bathroom.
After half an hour, I moved downstairs to the couch, covering up with a blanket, shifting around on the couch in search of optimal positioning. Once I found it, if I stayed still, things settled down in my belly. Just when I drifted off, I felt more cramps. Time to go back to the bathroom. I spent enough time sitting in there Sunday morning that my legs fell asleep.
I felt drowsy and delirious by the time Stockton woke up. After we searched the internets, we decided it was food poisoning that sidelined me.
“Would you like me to make some soup?” He handed me glass of Gatorade. Gotta stave off dehydration. I told him we had tomato soup in the pantry.
“There’s a lot of acid in that. Try again.” I fell into a fit of giggles, everything funny to me now, punch drunk on sickness. I searched the internets some more. Burnt toast eases an upset stomach. Stockton made a slice. I munched on it, willing the stomachache away.
It would rain all day, a perfect day to waste. Stockton headed to the store for some sick person groceries: applesauce, saltines, soup, popsicles. While he was gone, I reached out for my water glass and tipped in a mouthful. Spit that right out. My low vision had missed something: a stink bug crawled up the glass.
I took the opportunity while I was up fetching fresh water–hunched over in my achy shuffle–to visit the bathroom again. You know it’s a sick day when you can’t remember how many times you’ve flushed the toilet by noon. This too shall pass though.