DATE NIGHT WITH MONICA BELLUCCI (cancelled due to alien invasion)
Monica…
Never a dull moment with me! Living with an IBD ensures I am a Kinder Surprise. But for the past three years my surprises have been pretty crappy. Sometimes I’m surprised he hasn’t made a dash for freedom, away from all my drama.
Take last night: 2 a.m. He was out for the count, having been beeped to sleep by the owl we both thought was a Hoopoe bird, probably enjoying a lovely dream about a date with Monica Bellucci - he likes brunettes; go figure - when I appeared by his bedside, a ghostly figure reeking of vomit, with a stomach so bloated I’m surprised I fit through the door.
“Cedric,” I cooed - I’d brushed my teeth. About six times in six hours due to blehhhh. “I think we need to go to the hospital. There’s an alien trying to climb through the space beneath my ribcage.”
“Uhhhh”.
“Cedric, I re-cooed, louder now. “I’ve been vomiting for six hours. I don’t know what to do. I think we need to go. I’m sorry…”
Bless him. He got up, got dressed, and off we went to the Clinica de Girona, where I was immediately taken to a cubicle with horribly bright lights. A nurse stuck a catheter in my left arm and ran some magic liquid into my body. It wasn’t quite magic enough, so after a while she switched it to something else which my husband later told me probably wasn’t a good idea seeing as I’m half English and of Irish descent, and that Spain is one of the few countries in the world to still use this painkiller on a regular basis. Apparently, it has some sort of effect on your white blood cells, especially on people from northern European countries, some of whom have died… And there are guidelines telling them not to use it on foreigners from northern countries. I guess they missed the memo.
Anyway, I’m still here. Still rather distended, but at least the alien has gone. Maybe he was from a northern European country…
Jokes aside, it was horrible. I’ve had plenty of pain in my life, but this was more of a mega acute discomfort that would not shift no matter what I did. I tried peppermint tea, gas-relieving yoga poses, walking around the room, a small amount of fizzy water. Nada, nothing, zilch.
By the time we got back from the clinic it was 4 a.m. (I was amazed it all went so fast; when you go to the ER in Switzerland you know you’re going to wait a minimum of one hour, usually more), and we were both zombies. I felt slightly less uncomfortable and managed to fall asleep. And I’ve more or less slept all day.
Poetry wise, I’m on a diet today. Too knackered. But I’ve managed to produce a little Haiku, which isn’t bad considering the state of my, well, everything.
I think the flower I wrote about is some sort of Verbena. We have loads of it, and it is a trooper.
The Purple Princess : a Haiku
Ambitious, she climbs.
Easy to please and barefoot,
Proud to be purple.
Have you bought your copy of Illicit Croissants at Dawn? It’s getting wonderful reviews, but I need more! If you’re on the fence, consider this snippet of my latest review!
“A grown-up, bohemian Shel Silverstein... funny, poignant, and full of life’s beautiful mess.” Bonnie Solomon
