Putting Down the Ritz
My stomach is grumbling. I’ve just had the worst weekend ever. And that includes when I had my first sclerosis and smashed my shoulder to pieces on a tennis court.
I mentioned last week that I didn’t want to write about C. diff., but this appalling infectious bacteria has decided to give me little choice.
My doctor had put me on the antibiotic metronidazole to counter it for two weeks. I was feeling better. I left my pap diet of white bread, white biscuits, and maybe white anything.
Hot cross buns — mmm. Which I had, of course, enjoyed immensely. It is obviously incredibly bad for you, but there is still the allure of white toast and marge that takes you back to being 6. We know now that it is not a good diet, but boy was it fun to be forced into it.
Things had improved immensely. I went back to joining the family for dinner. All was well.
Then the gates opened. C. diff. was back with the vengeance of a pernicious stalker, and having had one of the latter, I’d prefer it to C. diff.
As ever, this tide of effluence hit me over the weekend. In the U.K., I could call the NHS 111 service, which sends out an emergency doctor over the weekend. But as I am obviously heavily shielding due to COVID-19, I endeavored to ride it out.
This was undoubtedly a mistake, especially for my wife, who had to clean up the mess on my bed and, indeed, me. Romance is not dead, yet I think I’ve killed it. My wife, by the way, is having to type this for me for the second week running.
On Saturday night, avariciously, I ate a white roll slavered with Marmite. A massive error. Not only had my bowels turned into the Battle of the Bulge, when the Nazis were winning, but also all power had left my body. I could do nothing to save myself from the situation. That was the bit when the Nazis lost. So, I stopped eating entirely. Little good did it do me.
Somehow, somewhere, the River Styx continued to flow. Every minute was gruesome. I ended up sitting on the commode for a ridiculously long time, and of course, nothing happened. As soon as I lay down in bed, well give it a few hours, my beast of burden ripped through two nappies and towels. I just had to lie there like a wounded soldier in no man’s land during World War I.
You may be wondering where the Ritz headline comes from. On Monday, my doctor gave me another week’s supply of metronidazole, and the instructions specifically state that one should take it with a meal. My savior.
My wife, unsurprisingly, was perturbed by this, but I had a brand-new box of Ritz crackers and convinced her that medically, I should eat one with the medicine. Somehow I persuaded her to let me have another.
A few hours later, the heavens opened once again.
My doctor thought I should be tested for COVID-19, as one of the early symptoms can be diarrhea. Well, so can the loss of smell. Now this would be delightful, as what I smelled coming out of me put the fragrances of Mumbai to shame. It’s the only place I’ve been where the layers of stench build to a crescendo that practically resembles an anti-perfume.
One night, my son rescued me as I lay like a rotting beached whale, nearly falling out of bed. He saved me all right. But he did his back in. I haven’t seen him since.
No food has passed my lips since yesterday.
My uppity secretary points out that I am a drama queen. There was a possibility that I might have to go to the hospital, at which point I wanted to gather everybody together to say goodbye. Indeed she snickers as she types this.
You can’t get the staff these days — at least the ones who are willing to wipe your bot-bot!
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