The Budding Roses

Amoeba

Thursday 11th May

My last stool sample has confirmed it. I have been diagnosed with non-amoebic dysentery; which is apparently quite bad, despite the non-amoebic bit, and really shouldn't occur in somewhere as civilised as Brighouse, or so the Doctor said.

'It could be constipation?' had been his first suggestion upon examination of my swollen abdomen.

'Now I might not be a Doctor,' Mother spoke forth, surprising both Daddy and I, who until now, had held on to the belief that her knowledge of gastroenterology did indeed qualify her as a registered member of the medical profession, 'but even I know that bright green crap is in no way indicative of constipation. Now fix my daughter!'

'Explain to me again how you've got this thing?' she turned her attention to me, 'and "I don't know" is not an excuse!'

Mother is horrified and can't stop sobbing that the neighbours will think she lets us live in squalor, yet all I can do is worry that this has to be some sort of secret punishment for my recent precocious behaviour, and that God really must know everything.

To convince herself that the sanitary conditions of her household are in fact of superior standard, Mother has risk-assessed that we must now routinely bathe ourselves in Dettol following our each and every visit to the toilet. Now I don't wish to disagree, dear Mother, especially given my current vulnerable state, but what a ridiculous idea this is; for not only does a mere sniff of the stuff burn the back of my throat, but I'm certain that the last of my baby soft skin is being stripped away each time I bathe in that noxious soup.

Mother needs to focus less on other people's opinions and more on the welfare her own daughter, who let's not forget has not stopped with acute vomiting and diarrhoea for the past three days.

Sunday 14th May

If I don't manage to hold down some food soon then they are threatening me with a drip. Just how such a finger wagging will persuade my stomach that now is the appropriate time to stop retching, I'm not sure, but if such an outcome is to occur, then there's one thing that's really bothering me; how am I ever going to watch Baywatch in hospital? I doubt that they'll let me take my television with me, and what if I'm only one episode away from Eddie and Shauni's declaration of love? Why I'm going to miss the greatest love story of modern day television history reach its fruition, and all because I've been quarantined and pumped full of saline.

It's so obvious that Eddie and Shauni are in love with each other, for a new star explodes whenever they share a scene, yet they seem forever cursed by bad timing, and each time I think this is it, that yes, they're about to do it, they're going to confess their true feelings to each other, somebody has to go and drown on them. It's the same old story, and if I were them I'd be getting mightily fed up with it all. Why can't they just leave it to someone else to sort out the whole drowning mess for once, and get on with the important things in life, like the future of their love affair?

So please, dear stomach, if you're listening to me, could you be so kind as to hold down just one tiny, meagre, miniscule piece of toast, a crumb even?

Sunday 21st May

Can you believe that Eddie and Shauni still haven't let their love for each other be known? But hurrah for good fortune, as my stomach has at least listened, and I've now not vomited for five whole days. The bad news is that this means I've been assessed as being fit enough to return to school; a charlatan decision!

'Are you sure I don't need to take another week off, just to be on the safe side? I wouldn't want to pass on such a terrible disease to anyone else. They might not be as strong as me, they might die, and it would be my fault.'

My concerns go unheard, and so as per the unyielding timetable that is Sunday night, I've been fed, watered, and placed in bed, just waiting for the inevitable. Whoever masterminded this awful routine should be locked in their bedroom and forced to live an existence of never ending Sunday nights.

It's funny, they say that the dysentery has definitely gone, but I sure am feeling queasy again.

'Mother!' I panicked, 'I can't sleep, and I don't think I'm going to be able to; ever again!'

'Be quiet Simone. If you stop thinking about it, you'll be asleep before you know it.'

I lay back into my pillow, but the nausea persisted, swirling like a hurricane, only strengthening each time I thought of all the work and social events that I've missed at school these past few weeks. I'm sure to be so far behind that I'll never catch up, and then I'll have to spend the rest of my life in the remedial class, forever with the children who can't even spell their own names. Plus everyone will have forgotten who I am, and I'll have to go through the whole painful experience of making friends, all over again. I shan't have a friend in the world.

As my thoughts accelerated, my mouth watered, and a plume of vomit came spewing out, flowing like an orange waterfall on to the carpet; splat. It had the consistency of vegetable soup, all carrots and broad beans, and just kept coming, nothing like the meagre millilitres of bile I'd struggled to wretch up during the height of my illness. This was substantial, easily half a jug full.

'Mother, come quickly. Mother!'

'Oh good Lord,' she turned grey at the sight of my gift to her.

'I've been sick again,' I wept, 'I hope it's not coming back.'

'Wowee, it's like a giant pizza. That's quite a record breaking pile of puke.' How can Daddy find my being sick so funny?

'So does this mean I don't have to go to school in the morning?'

Authors note: Is there anything worse than that 'back to school tomorrow' feeling? I used to feel it every Sunday night (in fact I still do even though I'm not in school anymore). Poor Simone feels it so bad though that it made her sick! Thanks for reading, love Ally xx