The Bug

It was never a bug, it was an even bigger deal.

Hello, my dear and beloved subscribers! The Monday To Friday Poet has decided to become a novelist on weekends. Writers thrive on the green grass of imagination, but let’s be honest: imagination can often be scarce. No matter how much we travel in search of it, joy can elude us at times. This is why we must endure the trials and tribulations of patience and discipline if we want to tell a complete story that flows seamlessly from chapter to chapter until the grass becomes greener and greener, and we no longer have to seek it.

Anyway, I will post one chapter of the short semi-autobiographical novel I’ve been contemplating each weekend. I appreciate your reading and your reactions.

**The Bug**

The fly buzzed incessantly, landing on various plates laid out on the table—a fly leaving its DNA behind with germs and whatnot. As soon as she finished eating her fish dish, her stomach felt heavy, pregnant with unpleasantness.

“Thank you, Marianne!” she said. “What a treat to be in this magical spot by the sea on such a rare warm day. I can’t believe I’m talking about summertime!”

They all laughed, realising once again that they had hardly had the chance to wear their summer clothes this season; it had rained and remained cool throughout. But not today! Today, it was not only sunny but pleasantly warm. They had all driven to Brighton in the morning, early enough to enjoy most of the late morning and lunch by the sea.

She had never been to Brighton before; the beach didn’t impress her much. However, the way the sea glowed—God! It looked entirely different from the Black and Mediterranean Seas. It smelled of something mysterious; dark on the surface, it seemed to promise that beneath that darkness lay a different, unexplored world lit by unknown forces and populated by miraculous creatures.

Speaking of creatures… she felt like some sort of creature was tossing and turning inside her tummy. As they got up to leave the restaurant, she glanced down and noticed that her stomach looked swollen, almost ready to explode. There was no way she could tuck this one in! She was genuinely unwell and quite concerned about the drive back home.

She had every reason to be worried: the drive back to London was nightmarish. She desperately needed a toilet break but not badly enough to use a petrol station toilet. She soldiered through, attempting to calm herself by looking at the clouds. They comforted her, like patches of muscle relaxers. She imagined plucking one cloud at a time and applying it gently to her angry tummy.

She survived the drive, but once home, the real nightmare began. Dozens of trips to the toilet, dehydration, pain, sweat, and little sleep. By morning, her tummy was not less bloated; if anything, it felt worse and almost unbearably painful to the touch. She imagined it would burst if anyone poked at her. Throughout the day, she felt so unwell that she couldn’t lie on her back and spent hours trying to sleep on her side, moaning in pain. She could neither eat nor drink, as it would immediately send her rushing back to the toilet.

Marianne popped in to check on her that afternoon. The weather remained bright, warm—kinder than whatever was dwelling inside her tummy. She accepted the carbon tablet that Marianne brought over but refused the tea.

On Monday morning, she woke up dizzy from dehydration, the beach ball still attached to her now felt like a guest couch-surfing. She caressed it, massaged it counterclockwise, cursed it, and begged it to stop hurting and deflate! Nothing helped. She called in sick and rang her GP as soon as they opened. The earliest appointment available was on Wednesday.

“I don’t think this can wait until Wednesday,” she nearly cried over the phone.

“I understand, but it’s the best I can do for you right now. If you start feeling worse or begin bleeding, you should go to the emergency room.”

“Well, that’s that, I guess.” She thanked the receptionist after accepting the Wednesday appointment and hung up.

The next few days were a blur: in and out of sleep, enduring pain, frequent toilet visits, and worsening dehydration. By Wednesday, she hadn’t eaten anything and had barely drunk. She could barely stand but had to walk herself to the GP. The 20-minute walk turned into 40 minutes due to how often she had to stop to avoid passing out.

As soon as she entered, the doctor looked shocked at her appearance. They immediately ordered blood tests and suggested further examinations. While waiting for the results, their immediate conclusion was that she was suffering from a stomach bug and recommended hydration, muscle relaxers, and plenty of rest while awaiting the test results.

By Saturday, the bug hadn’t cleared, and she was asked to attend the GP to discuss her test results immediately. As she entered the consultation room, the doctor appeared uneasy.

“Have you managed to eat at all since I last saw you?”

“No. I can’t hold any food at all.” It must have been obvious—she was already so skinny! This time, she had to take a taxi to the GP, as she was absolutely unable to walk more than a few meters without feeling faint.

“The blood tests have shown signs of inflammation in your body, so we have referred you to Guy’s and St Thomas’s Hospital for further investigations. In the meantime, you must try to hydrate as much as possible.”

She could barely murmur a thank you. She felt exhausted and now very scared. She knew this wasn’t good news. Scared and hopeless—not a good place to be.

It wasn’t a bug; she knew that deep down. The wait for this bug to wash away was in vain.

By the following Monday, she received a letter from Guy’s and St Thomas’s Hospital inviting her for blood tests and an abdominal scan. On Tuesday, she went to work for the first time. By Wednesday, she managed to hold down food. By the weekend, the beach ball began to deflate. Each day, she felt more like herself—still scared every time she ate, but the beach ball had shrunk, weaker than her, and that gave her courage. However, the sharp pain in the upper right side of her abdomen and that impending hospital appointment never left her thoughts, her body, her senses, or her nightmares.

**To be continued.**