On Thursday afternoon, I took the left-over meatloaf from the fridge, heated it and ate it.
On Thursday night I looked at my plate of Gnochetti Romanov with indifference and even a slight dislike.
During the night, I woke up with an intense feeling of distress in my digestive tract. I walked down the stairs in an effort to feel better and eventually ended up back in bed in a cold sweat, shivering.
On Friday I spent most of the day curled up on the coach, moaning. By that time there was an orchestra playing in the bottom of my gut, some foul gas and probably a few slurps of shit. By Friday night, the mere idea of food was driving me to the edge of vomit. I was nauseous most of the time. I was pissing with my asshole and even ginger ale would only last ten minutes before leaving my body in much the same form it had when it came in. With some phlegm, which I would later find out should have spelled out the problem for me.
On Saturday, I thought it was on its way out. I hobbled through getting ready for work and left. Then, I worked until Sunday night in a haze of ill-feeling ,at which time I found myself on the back of a plane hoping it would go down so the pain could go away. By this time, I hadn't eaten a significant meal in over 72 hours, I was dehydrated and I was carrying a vomit bag in my pocket.
On Sunday night, I passed out in a hotel room after thirteen hours on a plane.
First thing Monday morning, I flew home after barely any rest and was determined to get a prescription for antibiotics.
And that was just the beginning of a very, very bad day.
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