Not for the squeamish!
Having tried (and failed) to get Olivia to take more than two ounces of milk on Monday morning, I set off for work. As is my wont, I was listening to my iPod, but as I neared my change to the Docklands Light Railway, I turned it off, feeling slightly odd, almost nauseous.
By half past one, having spent most of the morning attached to a toilet seat, and with what appeared to be a personal concert from Croydon noise-terrorists Skat Injector* going on behind my eyes, I was feeling distinctly unwell and heading back home. I tried to listen to music, but didn't enjoy it. I tried reading. Not happening. I became aware that waves of nausea were washing through me. Initially I thought I could probably hold on, but I retrieved from my bag a plastic bag and checked it had no holes, in case of emergency. It soon became clear that I needed to stick my head down a lavatory, even a train one, as disgusting as it would surely be.
I pulled myself upright with weak arms, and maneuvered myself towards the intra-carriage door. I could see people were looking at me as I made my way. I expect I was a sight; wan and sweating heavily. The doors between carriages have a button you can press to open them, and failing that, they have an automatic release triggered by waving a hand in front of a sensor. Except this one. Well, it had them. They just didn't work. I kept trying, getting more and more desperate, thinking it must be me, that I wasn't doing it right because I wasn't feeling right. Then someone behind me said, 'They're not working,' and I knew I was buggered. I just managed to make it back to the standing area by the doors in time to collapse to my knees and sing psychedelic praises to the depths of a plastic bag, aware that my horrific yurping must be audible to all nearby. Once finished, I slumped on the filthy floor, holding the neck of my plastic bag tightly closed and hoping to fuck that I was right about it not having anti-suffocation holes in it. At least something went my way.
Not one person asked me if I was okay. I knew they were there. I knew they knew what I'd done, because when we got to stations, they would head to the other set of doors rather than have to acknowledge the pale-looking bloke on the floor with the bag of chuck. I expect they thought I was some disgusting drunk. I understand, but it's still worrying. Nana had friends whose son had an asthma attack in London in the 1950s, and collapsed to the floor. He died because people thought he was a drunk. That's melodramatic, of course. I wasn't going to die, and knew it. I did feel like crap though and I did resent that no one bothered to see if I was okay. Finally, one stop before I was due to get off, an old lady alighting from the train asked if I needed any assistance. I told her that I'd phoned my folks and was being met by my dad at the station, but thanked her for her concern. I couldn't bring myself to say it loudly just to make the point that I was sober though.
My dad gave me a lift home and I climbed into bed at about three, where I drifted in and out of sleep, remaining there until midday the next day.
Meanwhile, K___ had been taking Olivia to the health clinic, so she wasn't at home when I crawled into bed. Obviously, she had enough to deal with, what with Olivia refusing to eat. I was a real Brucie bonus. The health visitor wasn't too worried about Olivia at this stage, but did say we needed to keep an eye on things. Poor K___ had to cope on her own, without me to take any of the slack.
Still, tomorrow had to be better, didn't it..?
* Warning. When I said squeamish before, I meant people who got upset reading about arse-related matters, and chucking up. Skat Injector is properly offensive, a whole different ball park of wrong. I have a friend who genuinely seems to like them. I have odd friends.
Having tried (and failed) to get Olivia to take more than two ounces of milk on Monday morning, I set off for work. As is my wont, I was listening to my iPod, but as I neared my change to the Docklands Light Railway, I turned it off, feeling slightly odd, almost nauseous.
By half past one, having spent most of the morning attached to a toilet seat, and with what appeared to be a personal concert from Croydon noise-terrorists Skat Injector* going on behind my eyes, I was feeling distinctly unwell and heading back home. I tried to listen to music, but didn't enjoy it. I tried reading. Not happening. I became aware that waves of nausea were washing through me. Initially I thought I could probably hold on, but I retrieved from my bag a plastic bag and checked it had no holes, in case of emergency. It soon became clear that I needed to stick my head down a lavatory, even a train one, as disgusting as it would surely be.
I pulled myself upright with weak arms, and maneuvered myself towards the intra-carriage door. I could see people were looking at me as I made my way. I expect I was a sight; wan and sweating heavily. The doors between carriages have a button you can press to open them, and failing that, they have an automatic release triggered by waving a hand in front of a sensor. Except this one. Well, it had them. They just didn't work. I kept trying, getting more and more desperate, thinking it must be me, that I wasn't doing it right because I wasn't feeling right. Then someone behind me said, 'They're not working,' and I knew I was buggered. I just managed to make it back to the standing area by the doors in time to collapse to my knees and sing psychedelic praises to the depths of a plastic bag, aware that my horrific yurping must be audible to all nearby. Once finished, I slumped on the filthy floor, holding the neck of my plastic bag tightly closed and hoping to fuck that I was right about it not having anti-suffocation holes in it. At least something went my way.
Not one person asked me if I was okay. I knew they were there. I knew they knew what I'd done, because when we got to stations, they would head to the other set of doors rather than have to acknowledge the pale-looking bloke on the floor with the bag of chuck. I expect they thought I was some disgusting drunk. I understand, but it's still worrying. Nana had friends whose son had an asthma attack in London in the 1950s, and collapsed to the floor. He died because people thought he was a drunk. That's melodramatic, of course. I wasn't going to die, and knew it. I did feel like crap though and I did resent that no one bothered to see if I was okay. Finally, one stop before I was due to get off, an old lady alighting from the train asked if I needed any assistance. I told her that I'd phoned my folks and was being met by my dad at the station, but thanked her for her concern. I couldn't bring myself to say it loudly just to make the point that I was sober though.
My dad gave me a lift home and I climbed into bed at about three, where I drifted in and out of sleep, remaining there until midday the next day.
Meanwhile, K___ had been taking Olivia to the health clinic, so she wasn't at home when I crawled into bed. Obviously, she had enough to deal with, what with Olivia refusing to eat. I was a real Brucie bonus. The health visitor wasn't too worried about Olivia at this stage, but did say we needed to keep an eye on things. Poor K___ had to cope on her own, without me to take any of the slack.
Still, tomorrow had to be better, didn't it..?
* Warning. When I said squeamish before, I meant people who got upset reading about arse-related matters, and chucking up. Skat Injector is properly offensive, a whole different ball park of wrong. I have a friend who genuinely seems to like them. I have odd friends.
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