Now I understand what it means to be sick from stress. I’ve lost nearly two kilos in one week because I’m not eating. My IBD has flared up so severely that no matter how bland the food I eat, I’m still doubled up with stomach contractions. Eating is not worth the effort.
In general, I can deal with flare-ups, it’s just part of life. You put your big girl pants on— literally—and make careful lifestyle decisions. But this is the motherfucker of all flare-ups, dictating all my decisions this week.
Which is why I’m standing on a packed bus that stops at every bloody red light and pedestrian crossing and hasn’t advanced past walking speed.
I’ve never wanted a soak so much in my life. What I wouldn’t do for that Tristan’s smart bathroom with a million different spray settings. The water won’t relieve the cramps or pain but if I make it hot enough it will distract me for a while.
He messaged today while boarding a flight for home. Apparently, we need to clear the air.
Could he be feeling guilty? The asshole’s probably worried I’ll have a hissy fit in the office.
I didn’t respond. Fuck you, Tristan.
I know I was irresponsible. But at least it was a mistake. What he did to me was intentional, even if he didn’t mean to hurt me. I was a rebound. Everything between us, every word, every look, every kiss, flushed away. It all meant nothing.
Today was my last meeting on the Garcia case. After travelling across London to the prison, I now have to do the same to get home.
I brace myself as the bus lurches forward again. I can’t reach any of the bars. There must be a limit to the number of people on a bus but more and more people jam in until we are packed together tighter than two coats of paint.
The stomach contractions make me want to bend over but I’m trying my best to avoid spooning the women in front of me. Unfortunately for me, the guy behind me doesn’t appear to be burdened by such concerns. As he got in behind me, he pressed himself right up against me, smothering me in the stale smell of cigarettes. I take deep breaths and try to calm myself.
A violent wave of nausea rips through me. I don’t know why I bothered leaving the house today. In fact I don’t know why I bothered leaving the bathroom.
Oh dear. This is not good.
Three more stops. I can make it.
I have three more stops.
No. I’m not going to make it. I have to get off this bus. Now.
“Excuse me, sorry, sorry, sorry.” I push past disgruntled passengers. “Need to get off!” Get out of my fucking way, I’m dying.
After the longest minute of my life, the bus doors open and I limp out onto the street, doubled over.
I close my eyes and lean against the bus stop. The pain has never been this intense before. I’m scared now, really scared. What’s happening?
Every organ seems to be malfunctioning. I’m nauseous, dizzy and sweating all at once.
My insides feel like they are exploding.
My heart is beating so fast my whole body is shaking.
I want to call Megan but I’m in too much pain to reach for my phone.
I hobble over to the door of the closest restaurant. It’s an Indian restaurant, maybe. I’m too dizzy to read the writing above the door.
“Hi,” I whimper to the guy staring at me with wide eyes. “Can I use your bathroom?”
The whole restaurant goes quiet.
I grab my stomach as another wave of excruciating cramps erupts, this one stronger than the last.
Megan, I need you. I fumble with the lock on my phone.
“What’s wrong with her?” I hear a faint voice. I can’t see the guy anymore, I’m doubled over.
“Is she overdosing?”
“Ambulance.” I have just enough time to register the word. Then everything goes black.
