It's not that I'm particularly averse to being sick. Nor am I bothered by a touch of the trots now and again. As long as I'm at home and the bathroom is free, I'm as happy as Larry (a man renowned for his dickey guts).
But when both ailments are happening as part of a single illness, the logistics of having two holes at either end seems a serious bodily design flaw. I always have it at the back of my mind that both symptoms could potentially creep up on me at any time. The toilet might seem like the safest place to be, but if I am knelt down, vomiting into the watery abyss below, the act of retching might put excess strain on all internal organs - which is not very practical when you are also currently suffering with vulnerable bowels. I always feel a certain unease that the violent shudders of my retching might inadvertently force out a small geyser of fiery squit, across the bathroom floor.
My favorite part about being sick is the emancipating sense relief when it's all over. That relaxing sense of being sated, however temporary, almost seems to make all the phsyical work seem worthwhile. But this would surely be a barbed reward if I immediately had to face cleaning up my own pool of watery excrement from the bathroom floor. Being of rather queasy temperament, that'd be the last thing I'd fancy doing. As I kneeled on all fours with cleaning materials in hand, it is possible that the foul sight and smell before me would even be enough to make me sick again. Which would only add to the problem, because then I'd have to clean up a puddle of excrement that has now been diluted with sick! No doubt this unpleasant cocktail would consume me with nausea yet again. By now all is lost, as I'd be trapped in a cycle, continually sickened in my attempts to this clean up this perpetually increasing volume of mess. Presumably this would continue until all moisture has been completely expelled from my body. At which point I'd slump face first in a pool of my own messy devastation, dehydrated like a big bag of Bombay mix.
And what if things were the other way round and the diahorrea had come first? Mid-way through my expulsion, I'd be forced to toggle my exit hole, quickly having to swap from a sitting to a kneeling position. But then I'd be facing into a toilet bowl full of my own fecal matter, probably inspiring me to vomit with even more vigor than usual.
What if it was so forceful, it caused the contents of the bowl to splash back all over my face? Deflected excrement over my cheeks would undoubtedly make me feel even more nauseas, so it is likely that the retching would soon commence yet again. Only this time, my face would now be greeted by excrement diluted with sick. And on it goes.
With these concerns in mind, I don't envy my colleague at all. He has my humblest sympathies. Unless he's not actually ill at all. One can never tell - he might just be pulling a sickie.
If so, he should be ashamed of himself. Not merely for his deceitful lack of professionalism; but also for having put you and I through this blog for absolutely no reason whatsoever. It has been unnecessarily unpleasant. I only tried to write it to offer a kind of empathy. I haven't enjoyed any of the last 500 words at all.
