Last night MyLarry got home around ten or so, which was nice. I woke up at three in the morning with terrible gut cramps, not so nice. I wasn't throwing up or having the other end do much out of the way of normal, but I was still in the bathroom suffering. The pain got so bad I was lying on the floor in a cold sweat. Not as bad as the last time this went down, but bad enough. I was so dizzy I as afraid to sit on the throne; we have a funky narrow bathroom and if I fell, I'd hit my head. I called Larry until he woke up and got me back into bed. Luckily I only had to struggle back down the hall once more. He made sure I had plenty of water and a Vicodin.
I know what did this. I'd gorked out on fudge tasting, therefore I wasn't hungry and had a light supper of sheep's milk cheese, figs and wheat crackers. One taste of the cheese and I knew it was bad. Smelled fine, looked fine, tasted like the wrong side of Hulk Hogan's jockstrap on a hot day. I spit it out right away, as I don't care for the taste of jockstrap, hot day or cold. Still, I'm sure that's what made me so ill in the middle of the night. Today has been primarily tea and toast, fluids and rest.
Larry delivered his drywall this morning, and surprise! A load of steel for Vegas for Saturday morning delivery. He's already well on his way south and the size of the load enables him to run after dark all the way. He'll head back tomorrow. So much for spending our anniversary together; hopping on the truck with him with my innards unsettled is unwise. Maybe my poor guts will settle down and quit hurting by the time he gets back tomorrow, that's a bonus. Sunday and Monday are open, even though we both have appointments, we'll be together. Oh yeah, doctor's appointments as a romantic activity. Simply not the same as playing doctors and nurses, not the same at all.