I hate being sick.
Despise even.
I like the whole laying around in bed with Colin catering to my every whim part. “Wah. Am thirsty. Bring me tea. Wah. Am hungry, make me soup. Play with my hair. Rub my back. Wah!” Plus it’s a great time to watch Oprah and catch up on my DVR recordings. But I hate the kind of sick where I’m not too sick to go to work. Today is one of those days.
I have been naseaus all weekend. At first I thought, “Woohoo I’m pregnant! How will I break the news to Colin?” I stopped taking my birth control to start charting instead last month, so it’s totally possible. But then I realized that charting + trojans = a snowballs chance in hell that I’m pregnant. Then I thought, “It’s e.coli. I have eaten tainted spinach and now I’m going to die.” Then I realized that I haven’t had any spinach lately. Unless it’s possible to catch e.coli through osmosis, ie. walking through the produce aisle, then it is safe to assume that I am in fact, e.coli free. I have resigned myself to the thought that it is mearly a tummy ache. I even dragged my ass out of bed and off to work this morning. Oh how I’ve grown.
Back in high school, I would find any excuse not to go to class. Since I was in boarding school it was relatively easy. Just go to the nurses office, convince her I was sick, and go back to bed. Not like I had TV, or the internet, or even anything more interesting then my Physics textbook, but hey, it beat going to class.
One specific occasion I remember going to the nurses office and telling her that I had been throwing up. They don’t make you go to class if you’re puking, right? I think she was on to me the minute I walked through the infirmary door. Right away she asked me what color the vomit was. Apparently my brain had already gone back to bed for the morning, because my first instinct was to respond with, “Red? ish?” “Red?” she responded increduously. “What did you have to eat?” Way too quickly I responded, “A banana.” Seeing the stupified look on her face I added, “And a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” To which she just sort of glared in my general direction.
I blame my stupidity on the fact that I hadn’t thrown up since I was about three years old, and it must have followed a dinner of Spaghetti-O’s because I distinctly remember it being red-ish.
My answer almost cost me a day in bed. If only I have thought things through a little better. I certainly could have come to the realization that what you ingest is what you *ahem* regurgitate. Instead, she “assumed I was trowing up blood” and sent me off to the doctor. The British Medical system is NOT better then going to class. And she knew it. I learned my lesson though. Everytime I was ‘throwing up’ after that day, I knew exactly what color it was, and the previous day’s menu down to the slightest detail.
