Source:  Post-Norovirus    Tag:  norovirus recovery

12:30am Monday 21/1/8. But Why is asleep. She will get up early for work as she has some pressing stuff to get finished by 9:30am. She is dreaming. In the dream, she has a very sore abdomen, which makes sense, as she has been training so hard she has broken not one but two rowing machines.

12:31am I was dragged from my dreams by my conscious and subconscious self having a disagreement. My body occupied that space between sleep and wakefulness, alternately paying attention to the opposing forces, waiting to see who would win.

Subconsciousness: Psst, Wake up!
Consciousness: Hrrrrugh?? What time is it?? [Looks at clock.] 12:30am? I know I'm having an early start, but 12:30am early wasn't quite what I meant. And I don't care how many sadly mistaken blackbirds are singing, this is completely inappropriate wakefulness. Now shut up and sleep.
SubC: Erm, hello? Stomach pain...?!
C: Yes, yes, yes... It was a dream, remember? Now shut up yer moaning and let me sleep. [Conscious self shuffles to a more comfortable position and tries to sleep.]
SubC: Look, dude, I've tried to break this to you gently, but you leave me with no choice...
[Conscious self is surprised to find that she is hurtling across the landing with the rapidly clarifying aim of being in close proximity to the toilet in time for the commencement of 12 hours of projectile vomiting and explosive diarrhoea.]

And a very grim twelve hours they were, too.

Now, I know that vomiting is unpleasant. I have vomited previously. It has, without exception, been unpleasant. It may have provided some relief, yet I am fully aware that vomiting per se is not something which I eagerly anticipate. Despite this, every time I vomit, I am for some reason caught off-guard by the sheer unpleasantness of it all: beforehand, the stomach gripes, the excess saliva production, the adoption of the pre-puke, toilet-hugging posture, the retching, the sight, the sensation, the sounds, the smell...

The first session was unpleasant enough. The monotony of the puke/wait-to-puke/puke/wait-to-puke/repeat-as-necessary cycle was only slightly relieved by the intermittent requirement for urgent emission of diarrhoea.

I was getting rather bored of the unceasing necessity to puke and crap. Eventually, when I seemed all puked- and crapped-out, I toddled back to bed and tried to replace some of those fluids.

Big mistake.

A couple of minutes later I was back at the toilet, rejecting all the water I'd taken on and any other fluids kicking around for good measure. And this time, the lemon-fresh smell normally associated with the toilet was conspicuous by its absence, replaced with that special scent of sickness - the one that lingers around hospitals - a special blend of cleaning products and the products of diseased bodies. The first session was unpleasant enough, and it would only get worse as the night wore on...

Another abortive trip back to bed, a couple of sips of water and a few moments of feverish sleep later, the cycle repeated itself.

And so on...

And so on...

Some of these were vomit-only excursions, others required a delicate judgement of the direction and timing of emissions, and an unfeasible chunk of coordination and reflexes to avoid carpet disasters. I could rather have done with a handy bucket to provide for both eventualities, however, the bucket was up a flight of stairs and, on Sunday night, climbing those stairs constituted an insurmountable feat of athleticism, and, more pressingly, would have placed me worryingly remote from a toilet.

Two loo-rolls later, I admitted defeat on the dehydration front. I'd had enough of the routine, gave up on trying to drown the pesky norovirus, and collapsed into bed for a couple of days.

I guess it's what comes from rowing on the cleanest Metropolitan sewer river in Europe...