Right after my last post in which I wished for good things in the New Year, fate bit me in the ass (literally, it felt like) by dispensing a bout of the norovirus. I felt suspiciously odd on Tuesday after an alcohol-free New Year’s Eve. I can just imagine the cruel voice of the universe: ‘So you thought you’d have a sprightly and energetic New Year’s Day for the first time ever? Think again!’
There followed a miserable few days. Miraculously, B doesn’t have it (yet).
You might assume that as the person in the household without cancer I have forfeited my right to sympathy over a minor ailment such as this, but it isn’t so. B has been fetching beverages, plumping pillows and being his usual considerate, caring self. I can just imagine my own behaviour if the tables were turned.
‘Will it kill you?’
‘How long will it last?’
‘A few days’
‘Correct! You seem to have forgotten that I have CANCER! You have NOTHING! Now quit your snivelling and get me a green tea’
I feel a bit healthier today but not completely normal. My lack of patience for bland foods doesn’t help. Clear soup and dry toast be damned! The moment I feel even slightly better I eat something like a slice of toast with butter and jam which inevitably sends me straight back to the bathroom. Last night I spied some leftover buffalo mozzarella in the fridge and thought that seemed like a good idea. It was not.