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andrewduckerI've been ill since Wednesday.
Wednesday afternoon was spent over at out second office, installing printers and setting up the web proxy for the remaining PCs over there. Fairly dull work, but it needed doing. About 3pm I started to feel a little out of it, but I assumed it was mostly down to repetitive tasks dulling my brain combined with staring at computer screens all afternoon.
I arrived back over at our main offices around 4pm, feeling progressively worse. The main wall near my desk is entirely made up of windows, and at this time of year the light shines directly into the eyes of myself and Graham. This isn't usually a massive problem (I scoot around a few degrees and hunch down slightly and then I'm fine), but was giving me a splitting headache. And then I suddenly realised that I ought to be in the toilet.
[second chance - Typing bits of this have made me feel vaguely nauseous]
Heading for the toilet, I still wasn't unduly bothered. I didn't feel awful, just 'full'. But I shortly afterwards discovered that, in fact, my bowels had decided that they didn't actually want to live inside me any more, but would rather escape to live in the sewers.
Fortunately, I wasn't actually prolapsed, just liquified. I returned to my desk, did a few bits of tidying, and then abandoned the office at about 4:50, deciding that if I didn't get some fresh air I was going to be found dead on the floor.
At about 5:10, I realised that I really wasn't going to make it to Hugh's place in Edinburgh for gaming, so I phoned him and left messages. I then carried on to Queen Street train station, still feeling guilty about cancelling with Hugh, and trying to judge how ill I actually was (this is fairly common with me. I feel guilty if I don't make it to things I'm supposed to, like work, or gaming, even if I'm dying somewhere. I really, really don't like letting people down). I also called Erin, to see how she was, as she's been hit by some kind of flu thing recently (probably caused by stress over having yet-again taken on too much work. I told her I was feeling ill, and her instant reaction was to tell me to come home, followed by telling me that I shouldn't listen to her and I should go game, as she was just being selfish.
Shortly after that, Hugh phoned back, and I told him I couldn't make it through unless it was going to be a game-killer (we've missed too many sessions recently) in which case I'd come through and grunt at people. He phoned people and then called me back to tell me not to be an idiot.
So, I'm in the station, 15 minutes to wait for my train, when it hits me again, the sudden realisation that being in a toilet, any toilet, would be a real good thing. I fumbled in my pocket for the 20p in change I'd need to get into the station toilet, before realising that, for the first time in years, the turnstyle was broken and they were letting people in for free. Moving swiftly (but not too swiftly...) I headed for the loo and once again experienced what felt like a direct hit from a bowel disruptor.
Amusingly, Erin phoned halfway through this, as I'm sitting with my trousers round my ankles. I answered and told her I was definitely coming home, put myself back together and headed for the train. I spent half the train journey sitting in the toilet, head resting on the edge of the sink, just trying to pretend I didn't exist. I then pulled myself back out in time to crawl into a taxi home.
Erin knew things were pretty serious when I went into the bedroom, totally ignored the computer, pulled the clean washing off of the bed and started getting undressed. The fact that my first act wasn't to check my email apparently got her pretty worried. I then lay down, which proved to an absolutely massive mistake, as my stomach took this as a sign that it would be just as easy to expel itself through my mouth as my anus.
Grabbing the nearby bin, I making horrible retching sounds, but to no avail; my stomach apparently not being smart enough to realise that 6 hours after I've eaten, there's no way that any food is actually coming back up. This lasted for a while. I'm not sure how long, but all I clearly remember the word "peristalsis" sticking in my mind, as waves passed through my body. Erin offered moral support, passed tissues and otherwise dealt with the terrible things that girlfriends have to. Amongst them, sarcasm:
Erin: It's ok, honey.
Andy: I've been ok, and it very rarely involves me throwing up into a bin.
You have no idea how bad I felt about saying that, pretty much as soon as I'd said it.
I then spent the next 14 or so hours lying on my back, genlty drifting in and out of consciousness. My dreams revolving around war, generally, largely inspired by the Sharpe Novel I've been reading recently. Massive armies piling up against each other, strange adventures occuring, all in horrible technicolour. Oh, and the song "It's Raining Men" played intermittently in my head. Not the original version, oh no. I get the Geri Halliwell version. Lucky, lucky me.
Around 7:00, my body regains enough energy to attempt to expel the poisions it seems to think I still have floating around my body. No amount of explaining seems to get through to it that vomiting is not the answer, so I'm forced to spend another 5 minutes with my head in the bin. Erin waked up for this, makes comforting noises, and once again passes tissues. She, however, completely fails to wake when the situation is repeated at 9:45. After being ill, I feel markedly better. Well, unless I move, or breathe in too hard, or try to think.
I spend the rest of the day in bed. Erin tries to make me drink stuff, and I sip slowly, unwilling to push my stomach too hard. Eventually, she tells me that unless I drink more, she's going to call the doctor. I tell her to talk to my father, who is one. She ends up talking to my mother instead, who tells her that I have to drink. I assure both of them that I will do, but that I want to take it slowly. I read the whole of "The Fifth Elephant" over the day, enjoying it far more than I did the first time. I'm unsure as to whether this is because I'm not expecting something different this time, or because my brain has turned to mush is hard to tell, but either way it passes the time remarkably well, even if my reading speed does seem to have been cut to a crawl.
Erin comes to bed at around midnight and we both collapse back into odd dreams. I'm woken at some uneartlhly hour by her making odd sounds, and feel that I ought to make an attempt to go to work. A quick trip to the bathroom disabuses me of that, as I feel shaky by the time I've made the 30 foot walk there. I stagger back to bed, and snooze until 8:30, when I just can't sleep any more. I email work, offering to try and help out with any problems they have over the phone, but I don't hear anything back. I then sit and stare at the ceiling , trying to focus for a bit. Some cereal goes down fairly well, but then decides to sit in the pit of my stomach, aching slightly.
It's now 13:45. I feel vaguely human, so long as I don't walk anywhere or try to think too hard. It's taken me about 2 hours to write this, which is pretty pathetic, but hey, what can ya do?
And this is me, off again, to see if I can make myself look vaguely human, by immersing myself in hot water. It's a long shot, but it might just work.
Wednesday afternoon was spent over at out second office, installing printers and setting up the web proxy for the remaining PCs over there. Fairly dull work, but it needed doing. About 3pm I started to feel a little out of it, but I assumed it was mostly down to repetitive tasks dulling my brain combined with staring at computer screens all afternoon.
I arrived back over at our main offices around 4pm, feeling progressively worse. The main wall near my desk is entirely made up of windows, and at this time of year the light shines directly into the eyes of myself and Graham. This isn't usually a massive problem (I scoot around a few degrees and hunch down slightly and then I'm fine), but was giving me a splitting headache. And then I suddenly realised that I ought to be in the toilet.
[second chance - Typing bits of this have made me feel vaguely nauseous]
Heading for the toilet, I still wasn't unduly bothered. I didn't feel awful, just 'full'. But I shortly afterwards discovered that, in fact, my bowels had decided that they didn't actually want to live inside me any more, but would rather escape to live in the sewers.
Fortunately, I wasn't actually prolapsed, just liquified. I returned to my desk, did a few bits of tidying, and then abandoned the office at about 4:50, deciding that if I didn't get some fresh air I was going to be found dead on the floor.
At about 5:10, I realised that I really wasn't going to make it to Hugh's place in Edinburgh for gaming, so I phoned him and left messages. I then carried on to Queen Street train station, still feeling guilty about cancelling with Hugh, and trying to judge how ill I actually was (this is fairly common with me. I feel guilty if I don't make it to things I'm supposed to, like work, or gaming, even if I'm dying somewhere. I really, really don't like letting people down). I also called Erin, to see how she was, as she's been hit by some kind of flu thing recently (probably caused by stress over having yet-again taken on too much work. I told her I was feeling ill, and her instant reaction was to tell me to come home, followed by telling me that I shouldn't listen to her and I should go game, as she was just being selfish.
Shortly after that, Hugh phoned back, and I told him I couldn't make it through unless it was going to be a game-killer (we've missed too many sessions recently) in which case I'd come through and grunt at people. He phoned people and then called me back to tell me not to be an idiot.
So, I'm in the station, 15 minutes to wait for my train, when it hits me again, the sudden realisation that being in a toilet, any toilet, would be a real good thing. I fumbled in my pocket for the 20p in change I'd need to get into the station toilet, before realising that, for the first time in years, the turnstyle was broken and they were letting people in for free. Moving swiftly (but not too swiftly...) I headed for the loo and once again experienced what felt like a direct hit from a bowel disruptor.
Amusingly, Erin phoned halfway through this, as I'm sitting with my trousers round my ankles. I answered and told her I was definitely coming home, put myself back together and headed for the train. I spent half the train journey sitting in the toilet, head resting on the edge of the sink, just trying to pretend I didn't exist. I then pulled myself back out in time to crawl into a taxi home.
Erin knew things were pretty serious when I went into the bedroom, totally ignored the computer, pulled the clean washing off of the bed and started getting undressed. The fact that my first act wasn't to check my email apparently got her pretty worried. I then lay down, which proved to an absolutely massive mistake, as my stomach took this as a sign that it would be just as easy to expel itself through my mouth as my anus.
Grabbing the nearby bin, I making horrible retching sounds, but to no avail; my stomach apparently not being smart enough to realise that 6 hours after I've eaten, there's no way that any food is actually coming back up. This lasted for a while. I'm not sure how long, but all I clearly remember the word "peristalsis" sticking in my mind, as waves passed through my body. Erin offered moral support, passed tissues and otherwise dealt with the terrible things that girlfriends have to. Amongst them, sarcasm:
Erin: It's ok, honey.
Andy: I've been ok, and it very rarely involves me throwing up into a bin.
You have no idea how bad I felt about saying that, pretty much as soon as I'd said it.
I then spent the next 14 or so hours lying on my back, genlty drifting in and out of consciousness. My dreams revolving around war, generally, largely inspired by the Sharpe Novel I've been reading recently. Massive armies piling up against each other, strange adventures occuring, all in horrible technicolour. Oh, and the song "It's Raining Men" played intermittently in my head. Not the original version, oh no. I get the Geri Halliwell version. Lucky, lucky me.
Around 7:00, my body regains enough energy to attempt to expel the poisions it seems to think I still have floating around my body. No amount of explaining seems to get through to it that vomiting is not the answer, so I'm forced to spend another 5 minutes with my head in the bin. Erin waked up for this, makes comforting noises, and once again passes tissues. She, however, completely fails to wake when the situation is repeated at 9:45. After being ill, I feel markedly better. Well, unless I move, or breathe in too hard, or try to think.
I spend the rest of the day in bed. Erin tries to make me drink stuff, and I sip slowly, unwilling to push my stomach too hard. Eventually, she tells me that unless I drink more, she's going to call the doctor. I tell her to talk to my father, who is one. She ends up talking to my mother instead, who tells her that I have to drink. I assure both of them that I will do, but that I want to take it slowly. I read the whole of "The Fifth Elephant" over the day, enjoying it far more than I did the first time. I'm unsure as to whether this is because I'm not expecting something different this time, or because my brain has turned to mush is hard to tell, but either way it passes the time remarkably well, even if my reading speed does seem to have been cut to a crawl.
Erin comes to bed at around midnight and we both collapse back into odd dreams. I'm woken at some uneartlhly hour by her making odd sounds, and feel that I ought to make an attempt to go to work. A quick trip to the bathroom disabuses me of that, as I feel shaky by the time I've made the 30 foot walk there. I stagger back to bed, and snooze until 8:30, when I just can't sleep any more. I email work, offering to try and help out with any problems they have over the phone, but I don't hear anything back. I then sit and stare at the ceiling , trying to focus for a bit. Some cereal goes down fairly well, but then decides to sit in the pit of my stomach, aching slightly.
It's now 13:45. I feel vaguely human, so long as I don't walk anywhere or try to think too hard. It's taken me about 2 hours to write this, which is pretty pathetic, but hey, what can ya do?
And this is me, off again, to see if I can make myself look vaguely human, by immersing myself in hot water. It's a long shot, but it might just work.
