Of codeine, spit-up bowls, and a bathroom that could use a cleaning

Radmila once told me about a colleague who used to whine that she had “such a mi-graine” while appearing and acting perfectly healthy. Rada, send her over to me now, as I’m wearing my wickedly pointy boots and I’d like to kick her in the ass.

I woke up the other day before dawn with a headache. It didn’t take long to get really sick – minutes really. “Not this again.” I had to call Mr. Crabby for help. The small act of calling his name shot waves of nausea all through me, and made the pain in my head so bad that I couldn’t see. As soon as I was sick, the pain went away for just a second, likely because of the adrenaline, but came back even stronger. I crawled (literally) back into the bedroom (when did the hallway get so long?) and Mr. Crabby brought me a cold cloth, a big bowl, and my cozy quilt. He knows this routine all too well. “Call my boss,” I whispered.

It didn’t matter that I had to deliver a budget that day. It didn’t matter that I knew I had media calls lined up. It didn’t matter that an ethics exam from my professional association was sitting on my desk. I was incapacitated. If terrorists had been beside my bed with axes aimed at my neck, I would’ve thanked them. There's a joke to be had here about "incapacitated" and "decapitated" but I'll leave it to you as I don't have the energy!

For hours I lay in one tight ball, shivering one minute and damp and sticky the next. My head wasn’t throbbing – there was just constant sharp pain over my left eye. I was vaguely aware of Mr. Crabby checking in from time to time (he works from home). “More pills,” I whispered once. When the stewpidist cat on earth jumped into bed for a cuddle, I thought I would surely die. That white searing pain ripped through my head, followed by another wave of nausea. I remember thinking, “there’s chicken in the fridge that I want to cook tonight. What am I going to do about the chicken?” I also thought “Mr. Crabby, take the stewpid cat,” but I couldn’t manage to say it out loud. Then I passed out for a time.

At one point I reached for the big bowl that Mr. Crabby had placed beside my pillow, but the stewpidist cat on earth was curled up in it. I whispered “don’t barf on the cat don’t barf on the cat don’t barf on the cat” all the way down the hall to the bathroom. It’s ok, you can laugh. Now that I feel better, I think it’s funny too.

Mr. Crabby brought me a glass of 7UP. I remember thinking, “how many pills have I had? Is it too soon for another?”

I’m much better today, but suffering from the effects of what was likely too much codeine. I can’t speak in full sentences, and my stomach is testy. And I still have the budget in front of me, bugger bugger bugger. I really need a massage.

And as you might expect, the chicken is still in the fridge.