Recovery

Warning: to those easily disturbed, stop reading now.

I am trying my darndest to recover from a nasty bout of something that hit me late Sunday afternoon. All signs point to food poisoning. Those signs include copious vomiting with no fever. I've lost 8 lbs. in the last two days. That means that the a proportion of me equal to the size of a large-ish baby just ejected itself from my body over the past two days. That is wretched. And, let me assure you, it feels wretched, too.

I just choked down a half of a cup of chicken and rice soup. And I'm trying to convince my stomach that it would be a good idea for it to let the soup stay within its confines. It is arguing against me, but so far, I am winning. For once.

The words "violently ill" cannot be understood unless you are actually violently ill. And then, as you find your stomach overruling your esophagus in a nasty, painful war, you realize that illness can be very violent indeed. And the casualty in most cases, is the person hosting the battle. I think my esophagus is still sulking, but is cautiously optimistic that my mental battle with my stomach will continue to spare it any more misery. We'll see about that one. In the meantime, I am pale and wan from my battles. And I could really use more sleep, I think. But I am determined to live my life, and get up out of bed to do my work like I'm supposed to. Let's all pray that I can keep my food down for longer than an hour, that will certainly help.