Don’t Drink the Water

Virus: a small infectious agent that can replicate only inside the living cells of an organism.
Bacteria – a member of a large group of unicellular microorganisms lacking organelles and an organized nucleus, including some that can cause disease.

Day Two

He is back with the water. I am fifty shades of grey on this vacation…and not in the good way. I drink and it’s gross. Another “no name” brand of spring water. Come on, man! If I am complaining so much about the water, AND I am CLEARLY sick, can’t a mister focker bring back some Poland Spring?!

Be nice Momma, I’m sure this isn’t how he pictured his vacation, either.

He tells me the lady at the shop surmised from his purchase that I am sick. She says, sometimes drinking the table served water here is tough on the stomach. Damn. We have been here numerous times and I do believe that we have always had cocktails when dining out on the island. I knew I should have ordered wine last night! Ice water (eye roll). The sacrifice for the breast milk continues. Oh well. This is a pretty violent reaction for an ice-cube so it’s got to end soon. There is nothing left in my stomach.

Hours pass bringing a second trip for D to the little shop. Returns again with “no name” imodium (OMG, CAN I GET A BRAND NAME UP IN HERE?!) and various Gatorade flavors and a DIFFERENT type of water at my request. That crap was nasty.
I pop the pills and down it all. This Gatorade is not my preferred flavor and it, too, is foul. But I am in need of some good ju-ju for my electrolytes. Things have “settled.” And I want to catch up and get my shit straight, literally, before I have to get on that plane. Sipping fluorescent yellow beverages, I grow tired of D staring at me on the porch. I send him to the beach. I am fine. I want to sleep.

Late day, I break into the third brand of spring water. The same good brand we bought from the grocery upon arrival. I am annoyed because it’s funky. It must go bad from the power going on and off down there and messing with the fridge temps or something. I chug it all and get dressed. We are leaving soon and I don’t want to waste time in this crazy room all day.

On my way to the sand, I stop and check-in with the jolly couple. She had ice water last night, too, and we ate the same thing at dinner and I wonder if maybe it was the food that was bad. Is she sick?

She opens the door and ushers me in. I ask if she’s been unwell, saying that my stomach was…a little off. She said she’s been fine except pain from her arms which she is holding out in front of her in a “hug me” position. They’d taken a sail, to yet another island, and she’d been severely sunburned. The poor thing. She has them slathered with vaseline and they glisten, raw and red, the color of a Christmas ham. Then, she points to the big guy and says, “And Henry bumped his head.” He turns to face me and I see that he’s got a huge gash, now crusted over like a pile of dirt on the top of his big and shiny, bald head.

Jesus Christ! These two are a mess. I have to get out of here. They don’t need my stomach bug on top of this madness. These excursions are crazy, so glad we skipped our snorkel in the dark. People are dropping like flies. Like tsetse flies.

At the beach, I join D in the shade. I attempt the beach chair. Lay on my side. I feel like I have a hangover. My body aches on this canvas. I like that D seems happy that I have joined him. He’s all smiley and asks if I want a rum punch. I projectile vomit in his face. (Just kidding) I decline, roll over, and nap.

I come to and watch some guy, stooped with purpose, sternly speaking to a child then wrestling him out of the surf. A grown man being called a “jack ass” by his 7-yr-old: awesome. I can’t believe my spicy Grandma and Mr. Claus are missing this but it is too much for me. I head back to the room and lay down.

It is night and I am in bed. I don’t know what time it is and my right leg is weird. Big D sleeps. I shake it around. Bend it. Ugh! I have to get up. My knee needs to bend. I get up and decide to go and get some water. I go down the 7 steps to the main floor and open the fridge.

Oh my god! My leg is so weak. Is it asleep? I must still be dehydrated. A charlie horse?!

I grab a banana and start forcing it down. It must be a muscle, some kind of cramp. But it’s in the joint, or near it. I cannot get this banana down. I grab two waters. I can’t drink it because I feel like my leg is going to fail. I rush out of the kitchen. My calf is killing me. I crawl back up the cold, white, tile steps, using my hands. I get in bed and try to breathe.

My lower leg feels like it is being crushed from the inside out.  I wake him.

Something is wrong with my leg!

He asks: Is it a cramp?
No.
Is it a…?
I yell: Oh my God! Get up! Get up! Please rub my leg!
Where?
In the calf.
He does.
No. It’s in the shin!
He does.
No Thigh!
My mind is racing. I need a doctor we have no car the office is closed the phone in our room doesn’t work because it just rained i’m scared what the hell is happening?! I need to get a grip i need drugs we need to leave this place i can’t breathe.
I scream out. And then… It is done.

That was insane. I must have overdone it on the treadmill yesterday and, combined with the fluid loss, disaster. I vow to say goodbye to my pedicure for good, pack up my sandals and stick to my sneaks with the orthodic inserts until I am back in my house. I force down another bottle of water. I am exhausted but I do not sleep. Afraid of what might awaken me next. I will sleep on the plane.

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