Here I am, it’s past 11:00, I’m dead tired, but I don’t feel like sleeping. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.

I mentioned in my blog from Portsmouth, back on the 20th, that I thought I was allergic to London. That pain didn’t go away, and it’s still here. It’s gotten a little better than when it peaked on Saturday, but it still hurts so much. Saturday was horrible. It didn’t start horrible, and I had such high-hopes for the day.

We met up with Alastair at 10:00 at the London Eye and things were great. I felt fantastic, we didn’t have to wait in line, everything was good. After that, off we went to Covent Garden. That’s when I felt it. It all started twisting and turning again. I stuck through it, we went shopping, managed to keep the trips to the loo down to one. I was good at toughing it out, I thought. I could handle it. Bite the bullet and all that.


But then we went to Brick Lane for Indian food. I felt it all the way there. I felt like I would pass out on the Tube. I had to keep one hand on my dad’s shoulder at all times. Then we got out of the Tube and had to walk… and walk. My eyes kept feeling heavy. Not my eyelids, my eyes. They’d press down on my sinuses, making my head feel heavy, making me lose my balance and tumble against my own heels.


We finally made it to a restaurant and I dashed to the bathroom – it was coming, I knew it. But nothing came up. I sat in the bathroom for as long as I could without having to worry about my Dad or Alastair coming down the stairs, looking for me, making sure I was okay. I needed to catch myself, force my stomach to tough it out.

I ordered Tandoori chicken. Took one bite of the Nan bread and had to hold it. A few minutes later I took one small bite of chicken. Had to hold that too. And that look on Alastair’s face. Whenever I get asked, “How are you?” I always reply, “I’m fine.” I’ve been criticized for that before. This time I couldn’t, I knew it was written all over my face. He asked me if I was okay several times, and each time all I could do was shake my head. Couldn’t open my mouth, that was too dangerous. I’d shake my head and he’d get that look in his eye again. He’d look at me as he ate and whenever I’d look back he’d smile at me. Say something like, “Poor thing,” or “My poor Heather.” I felt horrible. It was my idea to come to Brick Lane, we came all that way, and I couldn’t even eat.


One more bite of Nan was a bad idea. Back I went to the bathroom and I came so close, I really did. But I made the mistake of catching myself, I still have no idea why. It should have come, but I put my hand over my mouth again. I waited, trying to throw it up this time. But what to throw up, I had no idea. I didn’t realize until the next day just how little I had eaten that day. No breakfast. Thank heavens Alastair bought me a pastie in Covent Garden. That was it, all I had eaten up to that point. No wonder I couldn’t throw up.

As we walked back to the Tube station I kept having to bend over, putting my hands between my knees, trying to balance myself. I almost threw up right on Alastair. He heard it, even. He turned around and gave me that look again and asked if I was alright again. All I could say was, “that was close.” “Yeah, I heard it.”

We parted at the station, and all the way home I felt horrible. There aren’t words enough to describe it. The knives in the stomach, a strange clicking under the left side of my rib cage, the tightness in my chest, that strange nervous pain down my left arm. My insides felt like they were melting, and my head was going along with it.

The worst was the walk home from South Ealing station. I needed motrin badly for the aching in my bones, but I couldn’t stop to get it. If I stopped I wouldn’t start again, and that wouldn’t have been good. My Dad went to a Chemists’ and I kept walking. Probably not the best of ideas, but it was all I could do. I needed the motrin, but I also needed to keep moving. As I walked I could feel my legs burning from the inside. I could feel every movement inside, and what was worse was my skin seemed so dry. My lips clung together and burned. My eyes felt heavy again, and my peripheral vision went all wonky. When I made it I collapsed in the bathroom.


I’m so tired of being sick.

I’m not sure why I wrote all that. I think I needed to talk to someone about it. Or something. I hadn’t mentioned how bad it was to anyone. My dad thought I just had to throw up. I think it’s more than that. It still hurts so badly. It’s been waking me up, that sharp, seering pain. Even now, whenever I move it hurts. If I hold still long enough, if I breathe shallowly, it doesn’t hurt quite so bad. I think I need to have to have more tests. I’m especially worried about my heart, but I’m not exactly sure why. I’ve had several echocardiograms and nothing was wrong. But still, whenever I had those tests they’d ask me if I ever felt a tightness on the left side of my chest, or a strange pain down my left arm. Now I have both, and that strange clicking underneath the bottom of my left ribcage. I think it’s more than the ulcerative colitis now.

I feel slightly better now that I’ve vented all that. It’s taken me long enough. I started this at 11:20, now it’s 11:50. Geeze. Normally I hide this sort of stuff. Actually, Alastair was a bit upset that I didn’t tell him I had a brain infection or a chest IV during the PotterWar campaign. I didn’t consciously keep it from him at the time, I just didn’t like to talk about it. If I could hide it when I appeared on TV, what would it matter?

I think I’m babbling now. Let’s change the subject.

I finished reading ‘Ender’s Shadow’ by Orson Scott Card. I do love those books. I caught quite a few stylistic “errors” in this one that might have made William Strunk roll in his grave, but OSC has a great talent for telling stories. He’s amazing at keeping each character’s idiosyncrasies intact and believable. He’s amazing. I think I’m going to rush out and buy the next book tomorrow, just cause.

I think I’m going to try and get some sleep now. Wish me luck.