>A Letter

>Dear Gastro,

You may remember me writing a letter to your partner in crime, Swine Flu. Well now, you get your own letter. Don’t you feel special? As I write this, I am laying alone in the dark with my computer screen dimmed as low as it can go. This is your fault.

Last week you attacked my brother and sister-in-law, forcing me into single parenthood for four days with the care of my niece. You ripped them to shreds. Then, THEN you attacked the little baby herself! How dare you! You deprived me of sleep during my holidays and I will not forgive you for it. Was that not enough for you?

On Boxing Day I felt a little off and I had the chills. Anyone who knows me will say, but Amanda, you always have the chills. This is true, but these were the deep down to the core, nothing could shake these chills not even homemade soup kind of chills. As the night progressed, I had a visit with my Grandparents (during which I managed to get my Grandma to say “hooters” many times…you have overshadowed this special memory), and had a nice little Skype session. And then you showed up. You brought me to my knees almost instantly. The chills turned into shivers and my usual fainty feeling I get when I’m sick had me lying on the bathroom floor in a very short period of time.

Then opened the floodgates of homemade soup hell.

You kept me up all night with your fever, chills and vomiting and I begged for mercy over and over. You were relentless all through the night. I woke up with extreme dizziness that nothing could touch. I spent lots of time on the bathroom floor, whimpering. Never in my life did I need to know that a blueberry muffin has that much effect on colour. But I do know that now, with no thanks to you. And that was only round one.

Then you attacked my parents. My poor little mother couldn’t move from her bed. I was forced to make my own tea. My dear father shivered. Shivered! I have never seen this man shiver in my life! This is a guy who can go outside in the dead of winter wearing pajama pants and not be affected one bit. You had him yelling for a pair of socks! Unbelievable! You also hit my other brother and sister in law at about the same time. You’ve wiped out our entire family. ARE YOU SATISFIED?!

And then came round two of your attack. More vomiting, this time accompanied with extreme ribcage pain. My sister in law the ER nurse explained it as dehydration, but I think it was you digging your evil claws right in there, with some sort of sadistic tickling trick. The pain was excruciating. They made me drink no name Gatorade. And ginger ale! And popsicles! I am so tired of natural and artificial flavours and really intense dyes. Someone please get me a dill pickle or something!

I haven’t even begun talking about the migraine. Yes I classify it as migraine status when it feels like the whole room is yelling in your ear. I writhed under a pillow for a good hour saying “make it stop!” until my father finally made the clock stop ticking. I have a better understanding of Captain Hook. But guess what, I’m not a pirate, nor do I want to understand why it is painful to hear a clock ticking. I haven’t done anything for the past two days besides sit. And occasionally doze. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW BORING THAT IS? No, you don’t. Because this whole time I bet you’ve been stroking your evil little cat (think: Inspector Gadget) and laughing maliciously.

You also forced me to cancel many plans with some dear friends. Friends who normally live in Boston and Winnipeg. BOSTON AND WINNIPEG. Those are not day trips! I miss these people! They are two of my very best friends and I’m not sure when I will see them next. Also, my other friend just had a baby! A baby! I can’t see sweet little Sylvan in this condition! You are depriving me of my best friends AND A BABY. Though I am rather upset about the crap you’ve put me through the past couple of days, I haven’t even reached my biggest complaint. You, Gastro, destroyed my streak.

MY FOURTEEN YEAR STREAK.

Until you came along, the last time I tossed my metaphorical cookies was when I was nine years old and had eaten bad buckwheat pancakes at the trailer. YOU BROKE MY RECORD. I can no longer brag about the fact that I have been puke-free since the 90s. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THIS MEANS? What will I talk about during those “well I’ve never…” conversations when people try and out-do each other. I HAVE NOTHING LEFT. A broken fourteen year streak means nothing. Shame on you, Gastro, SHAME ON YOU.

Consider this a giant internet middle finger.

Hate and funky coloured vomit,

Amanda

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