So, a regular Saturday night for me then – throwing up my dinner in a hospital toilet at 11pm.
[and now, after that punchy, attention-grabbing first line, let me explain…]
Having picked up the beloved soldier Mr McHutchon from the station (after enduring some pretty heavy travel woes of his own), we toddled off to his new house to hang out, relax and have dinner. Mark spends a lot of his time working in Ireland, so it was really nice to be able to grab him.
And then disaster struck: something went down my throat that didn’t go all the way down. Attempts to flush it through with water or food just backed up and needed to come out – fingers down throat stuff 😦
So there was mucous settling in little pools in the sink and something definitely stuck somewhere, but my breathing was fine and I didn’t feel ill. I tried turning myself upside-down, I tried jumping around, I tried more water or more fingers-down-throat, but nothing was changing, so off to the hospital we went.
They were pretty good. I had to be sick (just bringing up water/mucous/whatever) in the toilets while we waited, but they saw me quickly, shoved a muscle relaxant in my arm and said something about ‘fizzy drinks often help’. Maria ran all over the hospital to find a vending machine that actually had what we wanted, and the doctor was just about to recommend me for an x-ray and a camera-down-the-throat when she came back.
Two small sips, a rush to the toilet, and the rest of dinner came up. Hurrah!! I was free, though with an unpleasant vomit-flavour still in my nostrils.