Thought I Was Going To Die Last Night But I'm Better Now

It's funny how some days go. One minute you're just getting on with your day, ticking off all the things that have to be done (and some extras that hadn't even been on the list) and the next minute you're curled up in a foetal position wondering whether you should call 000 and go to hospital.

That's pretty much how my day went yesterday. I woke up feeling normal. (Tired, certainly - but it was just after 4:30am and who doesn't feel tired then?) I went to speed session feeling normal.(And cranked out some pretty slick, for me 1k reps.) I had breakfast with my posse feeling normal (actually I was feeling pretty good - happy with the session and enjoying the company). Then I worked till five still feeling normal. 

So far, so good. Pretty average Tuesday. The only thing that was a little out of the ordinary was that Iven was home from work (as he's been for a week) with a bad back. That means that the dogs have been missing out on walks. I knew Toby was really needing one yesterday - he kept bringing me his ball while I was working, trying to get me to play with him. 

Can we please play?

How many more bikinis do you have to cut? 

So I did as much food prep as I needed to and left Iven in charge of cooking the chicken while I took the dogs for a walk. I don't often do this because Iven tends to get distracted mid-cook by the bright lights of the television and sometimes our meals end up a little (how do I put this kindly?) caramelised. We've not had a kitchen fire yet but it's one of my greatest fears. And no - I'm not a control freak ... much.

Our walk was great. My legs had been tired from the morning's session but didn't take long to warm up and then going for a gentle jog seemed to be a good option - we could have our exercise but get it done quicker. And honestly, when one of your dogs has only very short little legs, you really do have to go at a very slow pace. Add in sniff and pee stops and it was probably the perfect recovery run.

I had dinner. Watched some TV. Then off to bed by 9:30 to read till my eyes shut. I turned the light off and started to drift off but was a bit uncomfortable so rolled over. And that's when it struck.

A pain in my back. No, it was in my chest. Or was it my stomach? No definitely my chest. Referred pain from my back? I've pulled a muscle in my upper back. Or I've slipped a disc. Actually, no, it's my chest - I think I'm having a heart attack. Heart attacks are different in women. Sometimes all you feel is nausea. Ughh - I feel nauseated. I think I'm going to throw up. No, it's the other end. Either way I have to get to the toilet. Do I sit or do I crouch over the bowl? Sit first then crouch? Or the other way round?

There's nothing worse than having to make that decision. Luckily I chose the right order but unluckily it did mean that I was having to stare into what I'd just evacuated while projectile vomiting what had been a delicious meal a couple of hours ago. And the pain just didn't let up. I managed to stumble out to the laundry to get a bucket so I could be sick from the comfort of my warm bed. I must have looked pretty awful because Iven dragged himself away from the television and was looking quite concerned.

I still wasn't convinced that it wasn't a heart attack because
a. nausea and vomiting can be a sign of impending cardiac misadventure
b. Iven thought that my skin was clammy
c. there is a history of heart disease in the family
and
d. I tend to leap to the WCS (worst case scenario) and if it wasn't a heart attack it was probably a ruptured abdominal aortic aneurysm.

A quick check of my pulse reassured me that my heart was fine. It was plodding away at its usual 54 beats per minute.

I lay there moaning and groaning in the foetal position for the next couple of hours. Iven got me a hot pack to help with the pain (maybe wouldn't have helped much if I really had been having a heart attack) then he drifted off to sleep in the prone position which meant that he was snoring - insult to injury!

I'd decided by now that it was probably either food poisoning (I HAD left Iven in charge of the chicken) or a tummy bug. I was really hoping that it was the latter because we didn't have enough buckets for the former and I certainly didn't want to have to queue for the loo. But the only other trip to the toilet was by poor Serena. I say poor because I hadn't been too meticulous in checking that the toilet had flushed away the evidence of my misfortune.

And while I was lying there, all I could think of was how this was going to impact my training. Was I going to be throwing up all night and the next day too? Would I have to miss my 16k on Thursday or just cut it back to 10 or 12? Would I be still feeling weak by Saturday and have to miss the long run? I didn't want to miss the 28k because I'm pretty sure that next week's run will be 32k and I really didn't want to have to jump up to that distance without consolidating with another 28.

By midnight the pain had settled enough for me to go to sleep and I stayed that way till eight this morning. And when I woke up it was like it had never happened - apart from having a bucket next to my bed. So I won't have to miss Thursday's or Saturday's run and my training will still be on track. And, even better, I didn't get blamed for the unfortunate state of the toilet. Serena thought it was all Josh's fault! Sorry Josh.