TMI! Really, Don't Read This!

I blame the chicken.

Well, myself a little too, due to the snow, but in fairness to me, it hadn't started when I made the decision. I bought a $5 special 7-piece bucket at KFC Wednesday night, all legs. Of course I couldn't eat it all, so I saved half of it for the next morning's breakfast. Being January, and the low anticipated to be well below freezing, I figured leaving it in the car overnight was just as good as putting it in the fridge, and save me a few extra movements in a busy morning. To speed cooling, I left the car door open an extra couple minutes as I left to chase out the warm air. If it was frozen in the morning, well then lunch would become breakfast instead while the chicken spent the morning thawing.

As they say, best laid plans.... About three inches of fluffy white insulation fell shortly after I parked the car. By morning the chicken was cold but not frozen. It was delicious.

Then, anyway. Not so much later, but we're getting ahead of the story. But KFC has perfected the art of saving pennies by cooking their chicken to the very minimum amount needed to bring the temperatures up to what's necessary, at least where they test it. I've found pink along the bones on occasion. That's not really a problem if it's consumed immediately. It could be if my method of refrigeration failed.

Mid-morning I stopped at a gas station to, among other things, indulge my daily chocolate craving. I found a lovely display of Andes cookies and bought a box. I love the Andes mints and decided to give these a chance. And, oh, my, yummmm! About an hour later I was developing a headache, and thought the chocolate might be the most likely suspect. I tucked the box away. Maybe the boys would like to try them.

About two in the afternoon I decided to have lunch. I wasn't really hungry, but I was feeling a little off, still headachey, and thought some protein might help. I'd packed some off-the-shelf beef spaghetti, never wonderful but usually acceptable, and a nice slender serving of calories, premeasured and work-free.

It had been a dreadfully slow day. About three o'clock I was parked at a meter outside a building in Minneapolis that - luckily - had nice public restrooms. I caught an hour nap while waiting for work, my second such of the day, and woke up feeling a little worse than I had. Crampy. I hit the restroom again, returned to the car, and a band started tightening across my stomach. I started thinking about everything I'd eaten that day, and started getting nauseous, especially when I thought about that chicken. I was going to be sick!

I hastily logged out, and started driving north. By Roseville I knew I needed to pull off and find a parking lot. I didn't want to be sick in the car. I live in that thing! Having parked, I open the door and leaned out.

Nothing.

Cold as it was, I closed the door again, and took a drink of water. Yep, that worked.

First, there was the never-wonderful spaghetti. Lots of it. Then bile. Plenty of that too. Several people were leaving that particular business at that time, and drove past me, tucked way by my lonesome in the corner as I was. It was the corner near the exit, of course. Nobody stopped to ask if I needed help. I spared a moment to wonder if they thought I was sick or drunk or what? Lovely image of the courier in the marked vehicle, heaving all over the parking lot. I bet nobody parks there for a while!

I was also very relieved that nobody stopped. Every heave to empty the stomach also worked very efficiently on the promotion of what has been colorfully described as "Hershey squirts". No stopping it. Not in the slightest, not with the most effort I could provide.

When that happens to you in the car, there is nothing at all to be done except to drive home. You can't run to a gas station restroom. First there's the telltale mess, leaving a very big blob for any and all to see. And if they hadn't noticed that, being intent on their own business as most folks are at the end of the work day, there would have been that awful, penetrating smell! No, it didn't smell like poo. It had the reek of week-old dead fish guts! And trust me, I know what those smell like!

When I was finally able to, I phoned Rich at home and asked him to put my pajamas in the bathroom for me. I was sick, coming home in an unholy mess, and would be needing the space to myself - trust me! - in about 45 minutes. Longer if I had to pull over again. He assured me that Daddy had used the bathroom just a bit ago, and it would be clear for me. That was good, for when my dad needs to go, he really really needs to go. Sometimes five minutes ago.

I grabbed a handful of the napkins that are usually in plentiful supply in my car, and stuffed them between my back and the car seat back. I sit on a small pillow because the upholstery in this car has nubs in it that are abrasive to my skin when I'm wearing shorts and driving all day. The pillow sits there all year round, having the added advantage of lifting me an inch or so and giving me greater visibility. It also protects the seat upholstery from spills. And stuff. By the time I got home and left the car, I threw the well-soaked napkins into the litter bag, and threw it and the pillow into the garbage can. They had plenty of "stuff" in them.

I'm thinking Febreze when I'm ready to go stick my head back in the car again. And finding another pillow.

I made it into the bathroom, emptied out my pockets, and mostly stripped down before getting sick again. And again. And again. Fortunately we keep extra buckets in the bathroom next to the toilet, mostly for emptying Daddy's catheter bag into. Thursday night one got extra use. During a break in the action, I managed to mostly rinse out my undies. Lucky for me I picked the brown pair that morning. There won't be any stains. I had planned on rinsing out everything, but ran completely out of steam after showering, dressing in pajamas, cleaning off the toilet seat, wiping surfaces down with Clorox wipes, and heaving, and heaving, and heaving...

God! That recycled spaghetti tasted awful! I won't be having any of that in the near future, that's for darn sure!

The semi-dry heaves are the worst. You think the stomach has to be empty, but it apparently knows better than what logic dictates. I found that a good glass of water facilitates emptying things out and bring up enough that the stomach relaxes between heaves and you can actually breathe. Aspiration was a worry a few times. That, and fainting.

One time back in Georgia when the kids were little, I was so sick that I took my pillow and camped out on the bathroom floor. I hadn't the strength to keep going back and forth from bed to toilet, and besides, that would have wakened Paul Sr. No, he slept quite well through the whole thing, thank you very much. There is one point where I think I must have passed out, because I do not remember the transition from toilet to floor. Thursday night I felt like this might happen again.

One of the things we've done for my dad in our bathroom is put in a support bar next to the toilet. I hooked my elbow through that during the worst of it and hung my head as low as I could, still keeping the bucket in front of me. One of the last things I wanted was to have to have the boys come and and get me up off the floor in that condition. I still had a single shred of dignity left.

Again, water helped. One thought was that I was in danger of dehydration, but the real concern was avoiding dry heaves. If I was starting to cramp up again, and if I was capable, I'd get up off the toilet long enough for another sip or two.

(Hey, are you still reading? Well, don't say you weren't warned.)

Eventually I was able to leave the bathroom. I intended to go to bed, but after stopping to tell Paul that he had baby-monitor duty that night and to go fetch it from my room, made it only as far as the futon in the living room. I asked Richard for a real pillow to put over the cushion pillow, and to bring the bucket out in case, and to cover me up. I was starting to freeze. It was no wonder, as I'd been sweating like crazy the last ten minutes or so. My hair was soaked, and not from the shower, which I'd hand-held where it'd do some good.

He brought the queen comforter, satin-covered, doubled over. That wasn't enough. He added the heavy hand-knit tan afgan. Still not enough. Finally he went and got the double-layer polar fleece throw I keep in my room. I still shook hard from the chills for about twenty minutes or so before drifting off, listening to the animated Hell Boy he'd recorded on the DVR. My left pajama leg, normally knee length, had crept up to about mid-thigh and was leaving me cold. I was too ennervated to reach an arm down to do anything about it. I just shivered and shook.

Bless him, he gathered up my dirty laundry and ran it through the cycles, bringing me a full basket of clean clothes Friday morning. No complaints that it wasn't in the condition I'd originally promised him it would be. When his program ended, he went out for a smoke. That woke me enough to throw up again. I'd stolen a diaper from my dad, ripping up the sides and loosely stuffing it into the pajamas, so I didn't worry about making it to the toilet. It seems that at least that part of me was emptied out for the moment, anyway. I rolled over and half the blankets slid off the satin comforter. Now I remember why it's been tucked away in the linen closet for years.

When next I woke, I again tried water and was finally able to keep it down. This seemed like distinct progress, so I got up and took the bucket with me to my own bed. It's so much more comfortable than the futon. Rich brought out a bottle of water for me to sip from during the night.

By midnight, I actually needed to pee! By then there was competition for the bathroom, since Daddy had picked that time to fill up his bag and needed some relief. Both boys were in helping him, trying to convince him that he didn't need to get up, that they just needed to empty his bag and he could go back to sleep. I won, of course. Richard was standing waiting outside with the bucket waiting his turn when I emerged.

Friday I really was intending to return to work. After all, I hadn't thrown up since about 10:30 the night before. Yahoo!

At the usual time, I woke up Daddy, started getting him dressed, and found I had absolutely no energy. Not only that, a little movement made me break out in a sweat. I called work, made sure Richard knew he was on full day duty and what hadn't yet been done, and put in my own order, after Daddy's breakfast, for some chicken noodle soup. Half a can of the Campbell's Chunky I'd bought a few days earlier should be enough to start, along with a half dozen saltines, and a repeat in a couple hours. I went back to bed.

Richard woke me with something that in no way should be dignified with the label of chicken noodle soup. He couldn't find the can I knew I'd bought, but located a generic label that some idiot brought into the house. It could even have been me, but we all should know better. This was colorless broth with thickening, a few bits - really tiny - of noodles to be found in it, and no chicken anywhere! HEY, DOESN'T THERE AT LEAST HAVE TO BE ONE PIECE IN IT TO QUALIFY?

I had no energy to argue, slurped it down, munched the crackers, and went back to sleep. After informing Rich that I'd just bought the real soup, and what it looked like, I was optimistic that the next meal would be better.

Silly me. Rich had followed my original instructions and first served me only half of the first can. The next bowl was the second half. We don't waste food. Apparently, not even under the most trying circumstances. Note: "Sure Fine" brand isn't.

Immodium, I had decided, was not a good idea when one is trying to recover from food poisoning. The goal is to void everything, not retain it. So I hadn't even bothered with it on Thursday. Friday I decided that it was worth trying after all. While the stomach was OK, well, ...you get the idea.

Mid afternoon I finally emerged from my bedroom for more than a bathroom stop. This time I insisted on that can of real chicken noodle soup. It took an hour, but I finally got it all down. By supper time I was ready for crackers, and before bed some peanut butter. I even took the baby monitor back in my room last night. After all, I'd mostly slept the clock around, so who else would be better able to tolerate interrupted sleep? And hey, he only needed attention three times, the last of which he'd been dressing himself at 4AM to go out to his chair in the living room.

Without help.

In the dark.

Without his O2, which he'd removed to blow his nose.

Yeah, I don't think so.

By the time it was really time to get him up, I decided that it's a good thing today is Saturday. And not an auction day. A little exercise still makes me all sweaty.

I need to consider breakfast soon. It won't be KFC, or chocolate cookies, or spaghetti. Not for a long time. A really really really long time!