Day 58 & 59: The Nausea Chronicles & The Pulled Muscle Mystery

Sep 14
4 min read

Oh my word. Strap in, my dear readers, because Jabatha has lived through two days of pure chaos that could easily be turned into a Netflix mini-series titled: “Collagen Coffee, Cat Bums & Catastrophe.”

Day 58: Friday – The Great Collapse

Friday. What a joke of a day. I was consumed by work – chained to my laptop like some Dickensian office urchin.

The highlight of the day? My stomach deciding to wage a full-scale rebellion.

I started off so wholesome.

Two tiny (and I mean minuscule, like borrowers’ furniture sized) slices of wholemeal bread with smoked salmon and cucumber.

Felt very London brunch café chic… if only the café came with a side order of nausea and regret.

Naturally, it was washed down with my trusty collagen-laced coffee because if I’m going to feel like death, at least let me have glowing skin while doing so.

By mid-morning, nausea had taken up permanent residence.

My ginger chews came back into the picture like an ex-boyfriend you swore you were done with, but who somehow still knows exactly when you’re weak.

They slid back into my life with a sticky, gingery vengeance.

Honestly, I don’t know if this is a love story or toxic relationship, but here we are.

Lunch? Water and ginger tea.

More water.

More ginger tea.

My insides basically sloshed.

I could’ve been entered into a wet t-shirt contest with how much liquid I was carrying.

Then dinner arrived: a few pieces of oven-baked lemon sole and some chicken bits.

Sounds harmless, right?

Wrong.

Within minutes I was channeling my inner Victorian heroine, clutching my stomach like I’d been poisoned. Five minutes later, I had indeed been violently sick.

And then… miraculously… I felt better. Like, what kind of twisted plotline is this? I go from dying to “ready for Strictly Come Dancing” in under ten minutes.

By 8 p.m. (yes, on a FRIDAY), I was in bed.

Lights out.

Curtains drawn.

Me, tucked up like a pensioner after a day trip to Bognor Regis.

A glamorous life, indeed.

Day 59: Saturday – The Rib-Crushing Cat & The Pulled Muscle Saga

I had high hopes for Saturday.

A lie-in, some sunshine, maybe even a cheeky little coffee in peace. Instead?

I got the full Jabatha experience.

At 5 a.m., I woke to find 5.5kg of cat lying squarely on my ribcage.

Purring like a tractor.

Her fluffy backside positioned firmly in my face. Nothing says “good morning, darling” quite like a whiskered alarm clock with a furry butt as your view.

Fine, I thought, I’ll get up and salvage the day with coffee.

But no, fate had other plans.

I coughed in the kitchen.

Just coughed.

And in that moment, I somehow managed to pull a muscle in my back, or my diaphragm, or maybe even my soul.

The pain was so sharp I thought I’d been struck by a medieval crossbow.

One innocent cough and suddenly I was a medical case study.

Enter: my lovely boyfriend.

Bless him.

He whipped up a small bacon sandwich for his now-disabled, hobbling, groaning girlfriend.

I’m honestly considering applying for PIP and a blue badge at this point. Imagine me, tootling around Tesco in my mobility scooter, revving the engine aggressively in the biscuit aisle. Iconic.

The rest of Saturday? A blur of paracetamol, Biofreeze, and Mustard the hot water bottle friend.

Yes, mustard is back.

He’s been more loyal than most men I’ve dated.

He clung to my back like a scalding emotional support pet.

Lunch was equally dramatic: lime Doritos and pickle crisps with salsa and hummus.

But here’s the thing – they were brought to me on a tray.

I lay there in bed like a Victorian invalid, delicately nibbling Doritos as if they were canapés in a Michelin-starred restaurant. “Oh waiter, compliments to the chef – the salsa was divine.”

Meanwhile, my boyfriend was glued to the TV, watching endless sports while occasionally checking to see if I was still alive. And I, surrounded by mustard the bottle and an actual purring cat, binge-watched Netflix.

Honestly, it felt like a parody of a cosy weekend gone wrong.

Dinner was homemade chicken Cacciatore

Just a little bit, because frankly, I was scared to eat in case my stomach staged another protest.

Oh and it did.

Sent me straight to the bathroom where I spent 20 minutes with head almost submerged in a toilet bowl.

Final Thoughts

So here we are:

Friday – Nausea, vomiting, and bed by 8 p.m.

Saturday – A pulled muscle,

Doritos on a tray, and mustard the bottle reclaiming his throne as MVP.

It’s official: Day 59 was probably my worst day on Mounjaro yet.

But hey, if you can’t laugh at being taken down by a cough and revived by pickle crisps, what can you laugh at?

Here’s hoping Day 60 brings less chaos, more food, and fewer medical dramas. Though knowing me, it’ll probably be something like choking on a ginger chew while sneezing.

With Love,

JABatha Christie

Oh my word. Strap in, my dear readers, because Jabatha has lived through two days of pure chaos that could easily be turned into a Netflix mini-series titled: “Collagen Coffee, Cat Bums & Catastrophe.”

Day 58: Friday – The Great Collapse

Friday. What a joke of a day. I was consumed by work – chained to my laptop like some Dickensian office urchin.

The highlight of the day? My stomach deciding to wage a full-scale rebellion.

I started off so wholesome.

Two tiny (and I mean minuscule, like borrowers’ furniture sized) slices of wholemeal bread with smoked salmon and cucumber.

Felt very London brunch café chic… if only the café came with a side order of nausea and regret.

Naturally, it was washed down with my trusty collagen-laced coffee because if I’m going to feel like death, at least let me have glowing skin while doing so.

By mid-morning, nausea had taken up permanent residence.

My ginger chews came back into the picture like an ex-boyfriend you swore you were done with, but who somehow still knows exactly when you’re weak.

They slid back into my life with a sticky, gingery vengeance.

Honestly, I don’t know if this is a love story or toxic relationship, but here we are.

Lunch? Water and ginger tea.

More water.

More ginger tea.

My insides basically sloshed.

I could’ve been entered into a wet t-shirt contest with how much liquid I was carrying.

Then dinner arrived: a few pieces of oven-baked lemon sole and some chicken bits.

Sounds harmless, right?

Wrong.

Within minutes I was channeling my inner Victorian heroine, clutching my stomach like I’d been poisoned. Five minutes later, I had indeed been violently sick.

And then… miraculously… I felt better. Like, what kind of twisted plotline is this? I go from dying to “ready for Strictly Come Dancing” in under ten minutes.

By 8 p.m. (yes, on a FRIDAY), I was in bed.

Lights out.

Curtains drawn.

Me, tucked up like a pensioner after a day trip to Bognor Regis.

A glamorous life, indeed.

Day 59: Saturday – The Rib-Crushing Cat & The Pulled Muscle Saga

I had high hopes for Saturday.

A lie-in, some sunshine, maybe even a cheeky little coffee in peace. Instead?

I got the full Jabatha experience.

At 5 a.m., I woke to find 5.5kg of cat lying squarely on my ribcage.

Purring like a tractor.

Her fluffy backside positioned firmly in my face. Nothing says “good morning, darling” quite like a whiskered alarm clock with a furry butt as your view.

Fine, I thought, I’ll get up and salvage the day with coffee.

But no, fate had other plans.

I coughed in the kitchen.

Just coughed.

And in that moment, I somehow managed to pull a muscle in my back, or my diaphragm, or maybe even my soul.

The pain was so sharp I thought I’d been struck by a medieval crossbow.

One innocent cough and suddenly I was a medical case study.

Enter: my lovely boyfriend.

Bless him.

He whipped up a small bacon sandwich for his now-disabled, hobbling, groaning girlfriend.

I’m honestly considering applying for PIP and a blue badge at this point. Imagine me, tootling around Tesco in my mobility scooter, revving the engine aggressively in the biscuit aisle. Iconic.

The rest of Saturday? A blur of paracetamol, Biofreeze, and Mustard the hot water bottle friend.

Yes, mustard is back.

He’s been more loyal than most men I’ve dated.

He clung to my back like a scalding emotional support pet.

Lunch was equally dramatic: lime Doritos and pickle crisps with salsa and hummus.

But here’s the thing – they were brought to me on a tray.

I lay there in bed like a Victorian invalid, delicately nibbling Doritos as if they were canapés in a Michelin-starred restaurant. “Oh waiter, compliments to the chef – the salsa was divine.”

Meanwhile, my boyfriend was glued to the TV, watching endless sports while occasionally checking to see if I was still alive. And I, surrounded by mustard the bottle and an actual purring cat, binge-watched Netflix.

Honestly, it felt like a parody of a cosy weekend gone wrong.

Dinner was homemade chicken Cacciatore

Just a little bit, because frankly, I was scared to eat in case my stomach staged another protest.

Oh and it did.

Sent me straight to the bathroom where I spent 20 minutes with head almost submerged in a toilet bowl.

Final Thoughts

So here we are:

Friday – Nausea, vomiting, and bed by 8 p.m.

Saturday – A pulled muscle,

Doritos on a tray, and mustard the bottle reclaiming his throne as MVP.

It’s official: Day 59 was probably my worst day on Mounjaro yet.

But hey, if you can’t laugh at being taken down by a cough and revived by pickle crisps, what can you laugh at?

Here’s hoping Day 60 brings less chaos, more food, and fewer medical dramas. Though knowing me, it’ll probably be something like choking on a ginger chew while sneezing.

With Love,

JABatha Christie

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