Mr. Man left for work this morning, and he was sniffling so much, it sounded like he was crying. I felt so weird and full of funk at 7am, I couldn’t even manage words to say the usual “good day love you bye”, so asking him about the drippy snot could not have been done without making him late for work, or hiring a translator.
My last meal was to be consumed by 9am this morning, so I broke my own rule and had some yogurt with frozen strawberries that my Mom left in our freezer. Colonoscopy prep’ rules #1 and #5, avoid seedy things and limit dairy. If it’s all you got, it’s what you eat.
I have a complicated history with strawberries. Starting about 4 years ago, I’d get super sick after eating them. Say it ain’t so! It can’t be the strawberries! I blamed the flax seed in my oatmeal concoction so I tested flax separately, and bam, blaaaaaaarg. So, flax seeds=no good. I tried the strawberries by themselves, and one hour later, blaaaaaaarg. Then a dozen times after that, just to be really super sure that strawberries are death berries. Yes, you can stop testing this any time now, darlin’. It’s abundantly clear your stomach don’t want nonna that.
When Mom asked if she should leave the strawberries, I told her I can’t eat them, and manchild probably won’t eat them. She forgot, like she does, and I saw those bright red frosty beauties skulking in their Ziploc prison.
“Liberate us, Kara! We’re delicious! We were picked at our peak of ripeness by faeries!”
Okay, fine. I picked out about 8 of the smallest berries, and dropped them in the bowl. Nom nom nom.
And most of the morning and early afternoon saw me on the toilet, purging out of both ends. Gross. Disgusting. Miserable. This probably isn’t a good thing. I fell asleep around 1 and got up a little before 4 with that distinct feeling of fuck, I’m sick-sick. Standing up sent my heart rate climbing the endless staircase until it made my vision fade and my face twitch, so, I spent the entire day in and around bed, drinking the most disgusting water ever deemed potable out of the bathroom sink. Fucking faeries.
Manchild got home at his usual time and stood in the doorway. His eyes were sunken in, his shoulders were slumped forward. He asked me how I was feeling today, in a way that seemed like he was looking for insight into why he felt like hell too.
He got sick today at work around 10, which is about the time I started to evacuate the last food I’m allowed to eat for the next 2.5 days. He said he spent too much time in the bathroom (check), and his hands started to swell up (uh, nope, my hands are as bony as usual). He thinks it was the weird gatorade he bought, or something he ate yesterday.
I have fever, he doesn’t. We haven’t eaten the same thing since the fudge rounds ran out a week ago, so either we both poisoned ourselves at the exact same time, we both caught the same bug and it’s having less of an effect on him, or we’ve been living together so long, he’s on the same “cycle” as me. Haaaaa.