Last week my sister went running with her husband while they were on vacation in Florida and came down with a nasty case of heat exhaustion, which left her nauseated and miserable for 24 hours. Today it was my turn.
I completed proofing the Russian to English rendering of a semi-scholarly book review and emailed it off, then decided I would continue being diligent (I have really totally let slide most of my self-discipline, and I desperately want to get back on track) by going on a run, burning off some calories before the panfuls of warm ginger cookies Susan and Steven had just whipped up came out of the oven. It was only eighty degrees out, moist and overcast, and I'd done this same run successfully several weeks ago, so I didn't anticipate any problems.
All I can say is, thank God (reverently and enthusiastically) for good Samaritans. I had run more than a mile and had descended a long, long hill when I was suddenly beset by nausea and chills. I knelt on the side of the road cradling my cramping stomach, wondering if I would get arrested for indecent exposure if I ducked into someone's bushes to relieve myself. I didn't have my cell phone, and there was no way I could move more than a few yards under my own power.
Just a moment later, a woman up, rolled down her car window and asked me if I were OK. She drove me home, and I barely made it in the front door before my body crapped out on me. Steven, being a Marine, immediately recognized the symptoms of heat sickness, and started plying me with liquids. It was a while before I could swallow more than a mouthful without feeling like it was going to start back out--it was like my body, being already short on water, was rejecting the introduction of more at the same time that it was determined to rid itself of as much as it could as quickly as possible. I stayed covered in cold sweat for hours.
Needless to say, the long-planned trip to the MD Renn Faire is off tomorrow. I am bummed--I had already assembled parts of my costume collection, and my friends and I were looking forward to dressing up. But as it happens, I am not the only member of our prospective group to be struck down--three others reported this evening that in appropriate pre-Rennaissance fashion, they have contracted the plague. So, instead of swilling cider and cheering jousting and tightrope walking tomorrow, we will all be drinking juice and resting up.
I gave this blog address to my Long-Distance Corespondent (henceforth my LDC) a few days ago, in a Tolstovian move. The unfortunate new wife of good old Lev T. read his personal history of his premarital paramours and wept; I hope that my LDC reads this informal memoir and laughs.