I wouldn't recommend reading this if you are eating or have a weak stomach, it gets quite graphic in places. Since Ferretfingers got home from hospital he has slept on the spare bed which I put in the living room. I slept on the chaise longue or cushions or an airbed, just to make sure he didn't try and walk around or put any weight on his broken ankle.
David's
ankle was x-rayed this morning. Everything is where it should be and the breaks
are healing nicely. Two more weeks to go ...
From my journal
Tuesday 17 March 2020
The trip to the Fracture Clinic went well.
Patient Transport got us there in good time and brought us home.
Coming back I started to feel a little unwell and hoped they’d get
Ferretfingers in quickly because I really needed the loo. As soon as he was settled I went and explosively deposited something
quite sulphurous.
I felt fine. As Fester was away at an annual meeting of entomologists in London
(which he’s attended for decades), I made tea: sausage and mash for all. But as the evening progressed I felt colder and colder and iller and
iller.
At 9.30 I got that watery salty taste in my mouth, went to the
downstairs loo and emptied my stomach contents into it in three huge heaves. I shouted for Thunderthighs, who was slightly startled to find his
mother prostrate on the half landing. He
got me some water, helped me to the living room and fetched me a pint glass of
lemonade (for hydration). I made myself
a bed on the floor. Thunderthighs
brought me a bucket “just in case”.
Worried in case the cause was the re-heated chicken we’d had for tea on
Tuesday I wanted to contact Fester. His
mobile is never on, so I texted his mate Titus “How’s Fester?”.
“Buying” was the laconic reply; so I knew it was only me.
I had a disturbed night as my digestive system spent the next twelve
hours or so emptying itself from the lower end.
I insisted Thunderthighs went to college the next morning.
Fester rang to say he’d got the train times wrong so would be back
later than expected.
I realised I was in no state to make Ferretfingers lunch (sandwich and
a banana), so when Thunderthighs texted to see how we were I asked him to come
home as soon as possible.
I felt so poorly I texted Mrs Leftfooter and asked if she was at
work.
She was but left and came over,
bringing her work laptop with her.
Thunderthighs arrived and made Ferretfingers lunch.
Mrs Leftfooter arrived, put her coat collar over her face like a mask, pointed at the stairs
and commanded “Go To Bed!”
I crawled upstairs and collapsed into bed; the first time I’d lain there in weeks.
Fester got home.
I thought it was only a matter of minutes later, and felt quite guilty
that Mrs Leftfooter had been summoned for such a short time. However I discovered later that she’d minded
the boys for more like two hours.
I was utterly exhausted.
I ate nothing on
Thursday and Friday, ached from head to toe, was as stiff as a board and only
managed to walk from the bed to the bog out of sheer pride and self-respect.
Even sitting up in
bed was an effort.
Fortunately
Thunderthighs knows how to operate the washer.
Even so instructions had to be given from the sickbed. On Friday he was getting all the knickers out
of the laundry basket for a hot wash when Fester interrupted with “And
Ferretfingers’ pyjamas.”
“Mum?” calls
Thunderthighs
What?
“Can I do what Dad
said? Can I put Ferretfingers’ jarmies
in too?”
To be continued
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