What goes around comes around...

Yesterday was, in no uncertain terms, a right off. A complete and utter waste of time. To the point that, after collapsing into my second 'nap' of the day, I had a stern word with myself and decided that the day was deemed a sick day.

True enough, the guilt hounded me throughout the day, nagging me, pestering me, breaking my deep sleep with worry. By the time it was official work 'hometime' and my mum, worried for my sanity, paid me a visit, I had managed to shake the guilt but instead bombarded her with questions as to how she coped with morning sickness and general pregnancy related shenanigans firstly at work with my sister and secondly looking after a toddler when I decided to make an appearance in her womb (I was the one that caused havoc for her unfortunately, my sister it seems, slept gently through her foetal growth while I was already establishing my many food intolerances by forcing them back up my mum's throat to which, thankfully, she does not hold a grudge).

She said it wasn't easy.

My guilt is much to do with my work load, my mounting tasks coupled with their weak, feeble excuses (my tongue forming the words I'm Pregnant over and over silently, my emails and phone calls pathetically stating I've been a bit ill, using up my postpone-already-late-task-with-no-consequences cards left right and centre, not knowing how they'll take it to know that I'm still, well, ill).

But it also is heavily related to all those women enduring the suffering in classrooms, offices and 'real' work environments across the country (I can't even begin to absorb the guilt if I am to think about beyond England's borders right now, I think I might just become the product of consumption by guilt).

If they can do it, if they can struggle through, why am I constantly collapsing?

Luckily, the sickness has subsided to a controllable state. Unfortunately this is resolved by eating little and often.

I'm not sure what the technical term is for 'often' but I'm sure I've blurred the boundaries between that and constantly several times over the past few days.

I did feel, at the end of the weekend, despite my strength and emotions being shattered because of the departure of my partner for the first of 3 months worth of weeks in London, I was going to be okay. I could even eat a variety of foods (accompanied by the ever present constantly necessary carb) and even manage the occasional half cup of tea (on a good day).

But something went horribly wrong yesterday morning.

It wasn't helped by waking up to learn that Newf had screaming diarrhoea.

My partner had dealt with carnage in the lounge on Saturday morning (from what end he wasn't able to ascertain, always a worrying sign). But, even despite brightly coloured excretions, the colour of fluorescent yellow for those interested in the detail, she was perky and bounding around and I thought no more about it.

Yesterday I was woken to my mum gently saying that perhaps Newf needed to go to the Vet. She hadn't touched her breakfast and there were more fluorescent discoveries.

It was 7am. The vet didn't open til 9am and I had a task list that was already starting to make me feel queasy (along with everything else).

This didn't help Week #1 of independence.

So I waited. I let Newf in to see how the patient was about 7:30. She bounded straight towards the cat food, splattering the kitchen with mud and generally causing a large amount of havoc.

So, I tried her with some carrot and apple. Fine.

It occurred to me she was just being fussy. Off her dried food because that's what (she thought, in her Newf brain) had made her poorly.

So I bundled her into the car and drove home where I purchased some wet food for her, which she devoured, and some suspicious looking vague diarrhoea tablets' (which, apparently, relieve the symptoms of diarrhoea, although it doesn't say how, what it does, or what symptoms specifically).

She bounded, tried scaling the fence and was generally her old self.

True enough, I had a few disastrous occurrences on the pavement on two walks, one where I had to trek home to get a bottle of water to dissipate the aftermath (I was not amused), the second time I was prepared (and had my mum to hold Newf).

By the time I went to bed, although Newf was washed out, I was confident that she was going to be okay.

Then, after falling in and out of dream filled snoozes, kept from deep sleep due to my stomach running riot and the foetus complaining unsubtly about the tea I had lovingly created, I thought I smelled something. Something bad.

It crept up my nostrils and lingered for a brief moment, but I dismissed it, thinking I was just worried and over sensitive.

Then it came again. And again.

I knew.

I donned a dressing gown and some trainers and opened the bedroom door.

The smell nearly knocked me sideways.

I trudged down the stairs to where Newf was curled up, awake but dozy, exhausted, in the corner of her area.

Before her lay carnage.

It was up the walls, in her water, all over the floor.

The problem with having a large dog is that what can feasibly be excreted from them is also to the same ratio.

I set to work with kitchen roll, a mop, disinfectant, and shoved a blindfold over my gurgling, active and nosy stomach.

Newf stayed perfectly still as I mopped around her, watching me, eyes of apology or pity or just exhaustion, I couldn't tell.

I finally got to bed at midnight, and drifted into sleep about 2am.

As if to punish myself for yesterday's lack of vet visit and the sleep I indulged my aching, collapsing body into, today I feel like I've been up all night drinking neat gin and feasting on undercooked curry.

I have used up my sickie. I have indulged my body and no remnants remain of that blissful deep slumber I allowed myself to have yesterday, to stop the headache, my tired limbs, my unrelenting stomach activity.

I am not sure whether to take Newf on the hour drive to the vet. She is now proving that she can pass solids and proved so in a slightly mocking way in the park this morning. They open in 20 minutes.