So DH and I have had this camping trip planned, to the block at Injidup, for a couple of months now. We try to make it over there once a summer. Ok, it is only 2 hrs away, but organising, shopping/cooking/packing/unpacking/washing/putting away for it is a big schlepp, and we have to be motivated, and pre-prepared, to do it.
Friday we left in good spirits, arrived with daylight to spare, set up the tent and extraneous equipment, and discovered we were without cooking facilities for the chicken curry I had prepared. Mum had told me there was a cooker there, so we just needed a gas bottle. Well, there was a BBQ there, which required a different sized gas bottle from the cooker we thought was there. So we ate some cold snacks instead, and went across the road to borrow a gas bottle. So happens that these folk are DH’s long-time friends from med school (you’d not be surprised if you lived in Western Australia – we are less than 2 degrees of separation over here, no matter where you are in the state!) So we stayed and chatted, then headed back to camp at about 9-ish, read til 10-ish, lights out, and then about 11-ish DH sits bolt upright and says: I think I have gastro!
And that, my friends, was both the beginning and the end, of our weekend camping. He spent the entire night up vomiting (and the rest) groaning and moaning and lying feebly trying to catch some sleep in between attacks. There was nothing I could do to help, and I got little sleep with all the
‘seventeen zips open, stumble, puke, blergh, get lost in the bush, stumble, seventeen zips close, oh no! seventeen zips open’: rinse and repeat until 4.30am.
He’d had a zofran wafer AND given himself a stematil injection (yes, we take this kind of thing camping, doesn’t everyone? [Actually, we just happened to have the medical bag in the car, which often we take out when we go away]) to absolutely no avail, so I knew it was a vicious bug.
I rose at 6.30 as is my normal time, ate and took my important pills in case I was about to come down with it, and tried to doze on and off from 9am, hoping DH might come good and we could still salvage Sunday. By 3pm he wasn’t vomiting anymore, but was hopelessly lacklustre (the worst I have seen him with any illness in many many years ) so I called it and started to pack up.
Which is when I began to feel queasy. And then nervous, wondering if I could do a one hour pack up and 2 hr drive before vomit-ville hit me. DH was in no condition to drive, and I could only gamble on my own condition remaining stable, knowing the drugs we had wouldn’t help me a bit. I gambled, thinking “I only need to get to Nannup, where they have a hospital, and the drug that WILL work, and although they don’t have a doctor there, DH can order it for me”. GO!
So I went, and I drove sensibly, and we got stuck behind a few slow pokes, of course, and I kept my temper, and DH slumped next to me occasionally asking after my health and telling me I was doing a good job. We made it to Nannup, and I still felt only queasy, so I pushed on the extra miles and got home. DH fell on the sofa at 5.30, put himself to bed in the spare room at about 7-ish, while I unpacked the food, bedding and clothes (these straight into the machine to wash off the bugs), then crawled into bed myself. Still no vomiting. I began to think I might just be a victim of hysteria. I am very ‘suggestible’ as DH likes to put it. Oh dear. That’s a bit lame of me, isn’t it?
Woke up Sunday, felt feeble. Nausea, listlessness, weak. Very much like early pregnancy symptoms to be honest. Although since I have not had sex nor ovulated this cycle, AND I am on the birth control pill, this option did seem very unlikely. Developed the nasty headache somewhere after lunch. Continued to do nothing all day (ok watched DVDs and read magazines). Thought since I hadn’t had the gastro explosions I ought to come good by Monday.
Monday came, and with it, DH was up and about, with not his usual energy, but still being productive. Me: struggling to complete some outstanding chores I wanted done before art classes begin tomorrow. Like, washing off the line; boxing up the mess I made in the spare room last week with all my compulsive ‘chucking’ of possessions; ironing; shopping; finishing off disc B of Grandfather’s memoirs. Instead: more DVD watching, and bean bag slouching (ok, I did get the first two items on the list done, and DH did the shopping). Still no explosions, still feeling run over by a bus, still unsettled in the tum tum. (STILL haven’t seen BFF either, as now I want to protect her from this new evil).
And here I am. A whole weekend down the toilet (kind of), and nothing to show for it. You could argue that I have been so busy lately my body was forcing me to have a rest – but I had already PLANNED that rest and was in the middle of executing it. So raspberries to that theory.
Nope, it is, as always, just life. In all its glory, randomness and un-wisdom. It was just the bug’s vigorously normal attempts at reproduction via the 18 month old baby DH treated for severe gastro on Thursday night. Passed on through respiratory droplets, it was hard for DH to avoid, given the copious amounts of fluid the poor thing was discharging at either end. How my immune system managed to stave off the worst effects, I don’t know. Maybe I got a lower inoculation because I didn’t get close to DH once we knew what was going on. Or maybe I just got lucky.
Whatever it is, I am thankful it didn’t leave me feeling worse, but will be grateful also when I am feeling a heck of a lot better. And I hope that time is soon. Like, tomorrow morning.
10 Responses to My turn for the worse