Bottom of the world

Awoke very early feeling very rough. Grappled with phone and texted Sarah: "When are you coming?". I'm completely exhausted and heavily restrained to the bed bound by a multitude of tubes. I'm uncomfortable, but it hurts to move.

I was sick during the night but not enough to relieve the nausea. I called for help and was impressed with how quickly the night staff responded, deftly wielding a vomit bowl like an american baseball catcher. Regular nurse visits continued through the night and into the early hours. Some are officious but not helpful and others have time to sit and talk. One in particular, sees that I am terrified, and calmly assures me that I will be well very soon. I am scared, I can see no way forward. My gut has stopped working; peristalsis is not happening and my abdomen is gas cylinder firm. I am nil by mouth again and living off my fat reserves assisted by electrolytes dribbled into a vein.

These are very miserable days. I have no visitors except for Sarah. I question myself about what they do if the gut doesn't start moving again - re-operate or just stop. Both seem equally terrible and, to my surprise, I don't seem to care. I can't remember ever having felt so low, but Sarah stays with me a lot and is a beacon in the gloom. It must be a huge strain for her.