Thursday, March 24, 2016

Pukefest Tour 2016

Caution: This post could get graphic.

In my last post, I mentioned puking at the end.  Alexis commented that it sounded like things got ominous.  Sadly, they did.  I became a victim of what I believe to be a case of norovirus.

I woke up at 3:00am Tuesday morning, my stomach still somewhat full of the previous night's sumptuous dinner.  I felt queasy, so I threw up. The vomiting was pretty violent, but I figured I had an upset stomach from rich food coupled with booze.  I didn't actually drink that much Monday night, mainly because of Large Marge and her entourage barging into our spot in the lounge and overwhelming us with their boorish behavior.  I had spent the week watching her and the whisky expert dude suck down excessive whisky and didn't want to follow suit.

Anyway, I felt shitty, but figured it would pass.  I drank ginger ale and tried to go back to sleep, but my nose was clogged. So I took a shower.  While I was showering, I threw up again.  But at least my nose cleared and I was able to breathe clearly.

After the shower, my bowels decided to evacuate.  Owing to all the great food we enjoyed last week, there was a lot that needed to be expelled.  But it wasn't long before diarrhea and stomach cramps set in and I knew I was in big trouble.

Bill woke up and I told him I was sick. He called the bridge to tell them about my symptoms after I expressed concern that I might have something contagious. We were supposed to take a coach back to Glasgow with others on the ship and I feared exposing them, though realistically, it was probably already too late.  The first officer came down with water and electrolytes.  He checked my temperature, which at that point was normal.  I was getting chills, though, and knew the fever was coming.

I started trying to decide what we should do.  We had a car rental reservation and a hotel booked in Stoke-on-Trent for Tuesday night.  But I was feeling so horrible that I was pretty sure I would be barfing the whole way there.  But Bill said there was no Hertz rental car agency in Oban, which was where our final stop was.  And if we booked a hotel in Oban, we'd kind of be stuck there.  I started worrying about the stewardess who would be cleaning our stateroom, knowing she would likely get sick.

In the meantime, I had also started my period.  I did the same thing the first time we sailed on Hebridean, but that time, I had forgotten my supplies and the ship's assistant purser had to take up a collection among female staffers.  I might have asked someone myself, but I doubt many other passengers who sail Hebridean still menstruate. At least this time, I had plenty of napkins.

The ship's purser spoke to us and suggested that they send us to Glasgow in a cab, which the ship would pay for.  I was impressed by that, though I am sure it was better for them to pay cab fare than expose many people to my sickness.  So some poor guy in Oban was tasked with driving us. It was a long trip on a winding, two lane road.  I coped fairly well for the first hour.  We stopped at a gas station because I felt sick and needed a toilet.  The cashier had the cheek to ask if we were going to spend any money.  I gave him a pretty good "fuck off" look.  I was no mood for bullshit.  It was at that point, the cabbie became more aware of my condition.  He said I should sit up front, so I did.  

We continued south on the windy road.  Suddenly, I shouted that we needed to stop.  The driver stopped on the side of the road where there was really no shoulder.  It was also on a curve, bordering Loch Lomond.  I sprang out of the car and immediately hurled so violently that watery puke came through my nose.  As I was puking, diarrhea spewed like a fountain from my ass. But since I was wearing underwear and pants, it all ended up trapped and flowed down my pants leg.  Thoroughly disgusted, I quickly determined that I needed to change clothes.  Though we were still on the dangerous curve, I grabbed a new set of "cleanish" clothes from my luggage and ran across the road to a somewhat secluded area.  I changed clothes faster than I ever expected I could have and threw the soiled ones in a plastic bag I had used to protect my silk piano shawl from Spain.  Vowing to throw away what was once a favorite pair of pants and shirt, I tossed the nasty duds in the trunk of the cab, set my jacket down on the seat and sat on it, and we continued to Glasgow.

I told Bill we would not be going to Stoke because I was too sick to travel.  The driver took us to the Hertz rental car office near Glasgow's train station.  There, we were taken care of by a sympathetic man who really went above and beyond for us.  When I blog about this trip on the travel blog, I will give him the write up he deserves.  For now, I will just say he helped us get a hotel room, where I spent the rest of the day sleeping between alternating shitting episodes.  Bill brought me fluids because I couldn't eat.  By Wednesday, I felt better and we went to Stoke, where we caught Avenue Q.





2 comments:

  1. This is so awful. It reminds me of traveling across Virginia once when my mom was sick. she'd kill me for posting this here except that she'll never know. She had to go repeatedly into a wooded areas beside the highway that may have contained snakes and God knows what else, and she's really snake-phobic. When the call of nature comes, however, it comes whether or not one answers it, and it doesn't care whether or not a restroom is available.

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    Replies
    1. I am just glad it's over and I am left with another fun party story.

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