The Brisbane summer has been hot and humid. Clothes sticking to sweaty skin and fresh cut watermelon turning sour within ten minutes of leaving the fridge.
It started with the dog. She could not look at anyone and hung her head in shame, “Poor dog, you must have eaten something bad”.
We cleaned the mess and went out visiting everyone for Christmas. By the time we got home Choppy was complaining of sulphurous burps and ominous gut rumblings. The next day he declared it must be Ebola but was still able to drive the six hours home.
We caught up with Choppy a day later and so did the gut rumblings. I ignored the symptoms, perhaps I was imagining it. I went running on the beach and fasted for the rest of the day. The heat and humidity of Brisbane had followed us home. The next day after a light breakfast I ran again. I had a minor fall, grazing my knee. My ankle throbbed, then my knee. I was drenched with sweat and the wind felt cold under the midday sun. My guts clenched. It had me.
Suzy rescued me, she took me home where I paced between the loo, the sofa and the shower. Eating nothing I spent the day and then the night reading and feeling sorry for myself.
Lying awake during the night I was remembering a family holiday in Scotland when I was a young boy.
The roof of my mouth was burnt ragged eating thick hot porridge mixed with melted butter and Tate & Lyles Golden Syrup. My enjoyment was cut short by gastro. I dropped my spoon in my haste to get to the toilet. When I came back Z had cleared away my half eaten bowl. Unfinished meals have never again tasted as good as that porridge. I must have dozed off because I was woken by Suzy returning from an early morning coffee with Sasha. She was buzzing with caffeine and shortly after began to feel nauseous.
Gastro is truly the gift that keeps on giving.
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