Weigh Day is upon me once again. Yes I am aware that it was only Thursday the last time I got weighed. But I miss my usual weight watchers class and my wonderful leader so its back to the oul routine.
Oh my god what a weekend! Himself was away at a stag for the weekend, so I had planned a lovely girlie weekend of catching up with friends I haven't seen in a while. Going for a few drinks and even maybe a bite to eat. I had planned on cleaning the house, going to see my Grandmother and spending bank holiday Monday with my beautiful buns and their mam. (The buns are also known as Connor and Aaron, my little twins that I am godmother to)
It didn't quite work out that way. Friday was to spent with an old friend. And it was lovely. We drank some wine and had a take away, which I haven't had in so long! It was nothing short of delightful.
Disaster struck on Saturday morning. I was sick. Not just ill. I was so sick that I was pretty sure I had reached the end of my days. I thought that himself would come home from Blackpool a hungover mess to find me dead on the bathroom floor. I hadn't decided whether the getting sick or the pain would be the death of me. I spent the morning in a mental tug of war trying to decide whether to call a Doctor for medical help or a Priest to give me my last rites. So, I rang my Dad. While I am aware that he is neither a Doctor nor a Priest, when I am sick I always want my Dad. Yes, I do realise that I am nearly 30 years old and shouldn't be calling my Daddy when I'm in crisis, but what can you do. The poor man! There I am, sick as a small hospital ringing a man that is nearly 4 hours drive away from me! He didn't know what to do. I was crying, he was racking his brains as to who to call to come to my aid. He rang me nearly every hour on the hour to make sure that I was still alive! Nearly gave him a heart attack, and considering his past medical history, it could have been very likely!
Regardless. By about 3pm I stopped getting sick and passing out every time I drank a sup of water. And at 4pm I managed to hold down a slice of toast without the same happening. The pains in my stomach had abated and I was starting to feel normal once again. So I just went to bed and slept my little head off until 12pm the next day.
The things I learned on Saturday are:
Oh my god what a weekend! Himself was away at a stag for the weekend, so I had planned a lovely girlie weekend of catching up with friends I haven't seen in a while. Going for a few drinks and even maybe a bite to eat. I had planned on cleaning the house, going to see my Grandmother and spending bank holiday Monday with my beautiful buns and their mam. (The buns are also known as Connor and Aaron, my little twins that I am godmother to)
It didn't quite work out that way. Friday was to spent with an old friend. And it was lovely. We drank some wine and had a take away, which I haven't had in so long! It was nothing short of delightful.
Disaster struck on Saturday morning. I was sick. Not just ill. I was so sick that I was pretty sure I had reached the end of my days. I thought that himself would come home from Blackpool a hungover mess to find me dead on the bathroom floor. I hadn't decided whether the getting sick or the pain would be the death of me. I spent the morning in a mental tug of war trying to decide whether to call a Doctor for medical help or a Priest to give me my last rites. So, I rang my Dad. While I am aware that he is neither a Doctor nor a Priest, when I am sick I always want my Dad. Yes, I do realise that I am nearly 30 years old and shouldn't be calling my Daddy when I'm in crisis, but what can you do. The poor man! There I am, sick as a small hospital ringing a man that is nearly 4 hours drive away from me! He didn't know what to do. I was crying, he was racking his brains as to who to call to come to my aid. He rang me nearly every hour on the hour to make sure that I was still alive! Nearly gave him a heart attack, and considering his past medical history, it could have been very likely!
Regardless. By about 3pm I stopped getting sick and passing out every time I drank a sup of water. And at 4pm I managed to hold down a slice of toast without the same happening. The pains in my stomach had abated and I was starting to feel normal once again. So I just went to bed and slept my little head off until 12pm the next day.
The things I learned on Saturday are:
- Apparently, your never too old to need your Dad, even if it is just some comforting words down the phone as you do your best impression of the exorcist before loosing consciousness on the bathroom floor.
- I hate being alone when I am sick and need constant reassurance that I will survive.
- I am slightly dramatic and hysterical when ill
- I have no hope, whatsoever, of surviving child birth. The pain I was in on Saturday resulted in a lot of the passing out. Apparently child birth is so painful there are no words so mothers just tell you that you 'forget the pain when you hold your child'. I am screwed.
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