BTBAH Part 2

Monday continued to be a terrible day. I lay there on the couch, unable to really sleep except in small snatches of exhaustion between the nausea. I started thinking all sorts of disjointed, but somehow in the moment, deeply philosophical thoughts. For instance, just the word "Gorgonzola" should be enough to warn you off eating the cheese of that name. Gorgon. Monster. Rips livers out? Has snakes for hair? Teeth of a dragon and skin like a footmat? Zola. Zola is one of the demonic sounds I've been making while doubled over. So sorry Emil. But the thought of the cheese conjured the smell, and the smell, so delicious as a topping on the squash thingy hours earlier, conjures another bout of severe nauseated reaction.

The thoughts continued. It struck me how so many extremes of the body take place in cyclical waves - timings between contractions or cancer therapy and the body's reaction. Whenever the body must force something out, it reaches a peak of a dance with itself, where the discomfort of holding back is equal to the pain and fear of letting go, and then, in the midst of the extreme of expulsion, when the discomfort and physical strain is at its most repulsively unbearable, the pain becomes exquisite, rather like scratching the poison ivy, just relax into it, go with it, and the pain is transformed into heightened sensation like an athletic performance. Zola!

Mouthwash, fumbling for the god damned mouthwash, eyes lidded.

The alarm went off at 6:30 AM. I realized that I had to get to work that day - there were meetings, there was a visitor to host on campus. I tried sitting up, but got dizzy and lay right back down twice. I bargained with myself for another three hours of fitful sleep. I couldn't possibly retch anymore. I might rest. I can be late.

The alarm went off again at 9:30 AM. I staggered to the bathroom, joints aching, trembling. I convinced myself the shower felt good and was reviving me. I shaved as carefully as a I could, noticing now the slight stipple effect of blown-out blood vessels around my eyes. I got as far as suit and clean white shirt, before the drill bit whining into my temple seemed to penetrate the bone and I had to lay back down or my brain would be the next thing I coughed up.

I called in sick. It is just no use putting on the show when the show could end up being how ill you really are. I spent the day sleeping in hour-long bursts and feeling glad about actually being alive. My kidneys felt like they had been worked over in partial payment of the interest on a gambling debt by a couple of tough guys. T thought that was colorful and probably accurate. All food was off limits and distasteful. I craved nothing but cool and clear ice water, but none of it was cool and clear enough.

I considered the "re-set" button hit. My body, the world, everything, was telling me in no uncertain term to fucking slow down.