February 1, 2016
Today has been a bad day. Not as bad as Saturday and Sunday, but definitely a bad day.What a way to kick off the month of love. Not that I believe in Valentine’s Day, but still a bad way to kick off the month. How did it get this way?
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Saturday was a good day – the morning and afternoon were anyways. The family and I went to the mall, then came home to play board games. That evening we ordered Marco’s pizza (best pizza EVER and I’d been looking forward to it all week), and settled in to watch Goosebumps with Jack Black. I grew up reading R.L. Stine’s horror novels, so I was completely stoked to watch the movie.
Unfortunately, I never made it to the movie. Shortly after eating my pizza, I became very ill, very fast. The room spun, colors blurred, and it would not stop.
I couldn’t speak.
I couldn’t move.
I knew if I moved even a hair, I would vomit. It was inevitable. Signaling my husband for help was useless.
Noticing that I was quiet, my husband looked over to me, and saw the look on my face. He said I looked spaced out, and was nearly spilling my cup of water onto my lap. This is where his trying to help caused me to lose my pizza.
As he walked over to my line of vision, the room spun more. The closer he got to me, the more spinning I experienced. After he moved the cup from my hand to the side table, he leaned over to hug me. That’s when it happened.
I incoherently mumbled something then tried to stumble to the nearest trash can/toilet. Trying to tell my husband I was going to vomit was futile. Not making it two steps from my place on the couch, I dropped on my knees, and vomited. Yep. All over the floor with nothing but the carpet to catch it. Very nice.
My husband and four kids looked on in dismay. They were shocked to the point of being frozen. What could they do? The one person that takes care of them while they are sick is now the one sick. The one that acts fast in a moment of vomit was the one vomiting.
In between spells, I managed to choke out the words, “trash can” and “towel”. These few words lit a fire in them, and they scrambled over one another to get those items. My oldest daughter, my “mini-me” grabbed not one, but two trash cans (apparently she felt I needed two) as well as a cold rag. My husband and oldest son got paper towels for the enormous mess now covering the living room floor, and my youngest son tried not to vomit from seeing me ill.
My youngest daughter? Well, she cried because she’s never seen anyone vomit let alone seeing mommy vomit. It was a bit too much for her.
I’m sure we looked hilariously confused although no one was laughing at the time. In fact, we still aren’t laughing. I’m definitely not laughing because I’m still feeling ill. I’ll let you know next week.
This lasted for about an hour. Vomit, rest, vomit, rest. Needless to say, my husband and I were the only ones in the living room after the first episode of me being sick was over.
Once dry heaving came, exhaustion quickly took over my body. I fell asleep on the closest couch until three that Sunday morning when my husband somehow got me from the couch to our bed upstairs. I slept a few more hours.
Sunday was a little bit better. My body felt as though I was hung over sans the drinking part. The couch was my place for the remainder of the day, and I didn’t argue. How did I ever drink when I was younger? How was drinking cool when it was usually (okay, always) followed by a hangover?
The kids did ask me repeatedly, “Mom? Are you going to vomit again? If so, there’s the trash can.” Yeah, they made sure a trash can was next to me the entire day. Smart kids.
Sunday’s night sleep was the worst it has been in months. I couldn’t fall asleep, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open. The room would spin when my eyes were open, but yet the bed rocked gently when my eyes were closed. Not that soothing-fall-asleep rocking either. That annoying on-a-sailboat where you get sea sick type of rocking.
This Monday morning was hell. My stomach was still reeling from Saturday night’s barf fest, and my brain relentlessly pounded on my skull wanting to break free of its confines.
How was I to get anything done today? Kids needed lunches packed and put onto the bus. Laundry needed to be washed. Kitchen sinks and counters were spilling over with dirty dishes and trash. In other words, my house looked like a frat house after a weekend of partying. And that’s how my body felt, too.
I managed to throw laundry into the washer. Literally, I threw it in there without sorting. And just as I was figuring out what to do about the kids, my husband offered to help. He got the kids’ lunches packed and onto the bus which caused him to be late to work. Again. Again because of me being sick. And without any complaining from him.
Once the kids and husband were out of the house, I focused on getting well again. The couch was again my place of comfort for the majority of the day. Yet the entire day I fretted about not being able to work. There was so many things to do especially with Fibromyalgia month around the corner in May.
When I voiced these concerns to my husband, he said it’s okay to have a ‘sick’ day every once in a while. Once in a while? In my case it’s every day.I’m tired of sick days. I’d like to have a ‘well’ day instead.
Now – what to do about dinner?
Disclaimer: Please understand that everyone is different in their journey with fibromyalgia and/or chronic illness. This is my journey, my stories, my vulnerability to share with you in order to help in some way. It is in no way to compare my journey with yours or to minimize your pains, feelings, or experiences. Please do not comment with any negativity.