Not that I really know what that means. Not that I really think my GP knows what that means. But fingers crossed that the poor unfortunate at the path lab who has to grow my poo bugs will know what that means. Good lord, I hope he's wearing one of those yellow suits from Outbreak, before he pops the lid on that container.
But I'm looking for silver linings, I really am. Lets see.
For once I do look sick, according to Mr Grumpy. So I guess that's something. Mind you I never really thought of gastro as fitting into the Super Model disease group like Bob. Something about exploding bodily fluids doesn't exactly scream beauty.
And I have lost those pesky pounds, plus a few, and I didn't even have to go to a single Jenny Craig meeting. Though that could stop right about now. 7kg down in a little under a week not so good for symptom management and I'm pretty sure I could have just tossed my meds straight into the loo rather than bothering with trying to down them. But at this rate I'm a shoe in for ANTM, well apart from being an old fart and all.
I got to freak out my GP, which I always enjoy, by having no peripheral pulse. Though she could get one from the weirdly spasming blood vessel in my stomach that she could both see and feel. A first for her apparently.
I didn't even feel the large needle in my bum to stop vomiting. Go the power of SNAFU.
I also managed to gross out my eldest son, again something I enjoy immensely, by pointing out that there was a bag with my foul poo in it, sitting right next to him as he drove me to pathology.
I haven't had to cook, which is really a bonus all round, as no one wants a gastro-infested woman touching their potatoes.
See silver linings and all that jazz.
Now if only I could work out how to stop water working like a laxative I'd be pretty happy. And real food would be nice. But, that just sounds picky.
So I'll crawl back under my doona and cuddle my pillow, and think about how in a few days I'm sure to get a gig on ANTM.
And because show tunes always make me happy.