It was the fish that did it.

On Saturday afternoon, Jesse and I ate an early dinner at a lovely Irish pub. He got a burger, and I got fish and chips. I gave him a big mouthful of my fish (STOP LAUGHING RIGHT NOW) and then promptly finished the rest.

Immediately I knew something was up, but I thought I was just full from over-eating (standard). Fast forward to 9pm, and I start getting more and more uncomfortable. My stomach hurts, with stabbing pains and cramps increasing in intensity, and I drink water to try and move things along. I can’t even concentrate on watching The Sopranos, and we’re right at the end of the final season – this is how you know I wasn’t in a good place physically.

By 10pm, I’m in full swing: projectile vomiting (from both ends, sorry), intense pain that stopped me from being able to talk or interact and left me writhing uncontrollably on the bed. I realized I needed medical care, but I couldn’t even get myself down to the car without, you know, vomiting or pooping. Our roommates had been drinking all day, and although they kindly offered to drive, we selected a safer option: We called an ambulance.

They quickly gave me some fluid and anti-nausea meds on the way to the hospital, and I nearly soiled my pants in the back of the van while vomiting violently. It was super fun (this is sarcasm).

We arrived at the hospital. While still writhing uncontrollably on the gurney, I was put through the admissions process and taken to a room. They asked questions, watched me vomit, asked what in the hell we had eaten, and got out of the way whenever I ran – butt cheeks clenched so hard that they nearly fused – to use the bathroom.

Eventually they started pumping me with fluids and anti nausea medication. I was still in significant amounts of pain and consistently surprising myself at how much noise I make when I’m hurting this badly. Eventually I gestured at my stomach and garbled “help me. pain.” to the nurse, and she went and grabbed the doctor who ordered a shot of morphine. A small part of my brain was like “KA CHING!” but the other parts were more like “WHATEVER IT IS, GET IT IN ME BEFORE I PASS OUT”.

After a logistically difficult pregnancy test, they gave me the morphine, which was a lovely little window of reprieve. I begged for water which they continually denied, and eventually let me chew on ice blocks. The morphine wore off, and the pain was back, so they topped me up again. Another welcome break from the pain.

By this point, I’d been given 2 liters of fluid in an attempt to rehydrate me. I still felt thirsty, I was in pain, and I was still vomiting, so the amazing doctor ordered another liter of fluid, plus Lorazepam (evidently it helps with nausea and anxiety), and this felt like the first step towards normalcy.

By this point, Jesse had started vomiting and having trouble with the other end, too. Fortunately he only had one bite of my fish, so his pain was far less intense than mine, but holy shit that fish must have been full of some gnarly germs for us to react so badly.

Eventually things settled down to the point where I could drink some juice without an immediate refund, so it was time for us to go.

A stop at the chemist for Pedialyte, Gatorade, and rice cakes, and we were finally home.

That sucked! Never again! Wow!