Day 77: Lucky Sevens & Chicken Heists

Oct 2
3 min read

Day 77. WOW. Let’s talk about sevens.

In numerology, a single 7 means wisdom, intuition, and spiritual awakening.

Basically, it’s the universe telling me I should be a zen guru, sitting cross-legged, eating lentils, and handing out profound advice like “don’t text your ex after wine.”

77 though?

Double wisdom, double intuition, double awakening.

The angel number crew say it means you’re on the right path.

Personally, I translate that as: permission for two desserts tonight.

Some also say it’s divine encouragement that your life choices are blessed. Which is comforting, considering I literally stole a piece of chicken today - but more on that later.

So yes, today carries mystical significance.

Either enlightenment is coming my way… or my next retching episode will sound like Gregorian chanting.

And how did this divine day start?

With my other half’s alarm at 6am - an alarm so loud it could wake an entire medieval village, the livestock, and possibly a few historical figures from their graves.

Add Ruby the Serial Purrer staging her daily cat orchestra on my chest, and I couldn’t decide if she wanted cuddles or was aggressively trying to evict me from the bed so she could sprawl like Cleopatra.

Early meetings awaited, of course.

No breakfast until 10:30, when I ate some lovely soda bread that my amazing other half bought me yesterday. YUM.

Had a couple of slices with smoked salmon and Polish pickles, which was heavenly… until the bread staged a sit-in protest in my oesophagus.

I knew what was coming.

Quickly washed it down with triple ginger tea, which at this point feels like my personal fire extinguisher.

Then back to the computer: more meetings, more PowerPoints, more me wondering how “mute” hasn’t won a Nobel Prize yet.

Meanwhile, I’m coughing, sniffing, and sneezing for England, which always threatens to bring on retching.

Yesterday, I sat next to a man on the train who coughed directly into the air, and I nearly yeeted him out of the carriage.

I do not need another flu, thank you very much.

Lunch-slash-dinner?

Tomato soup.

Nice, simple, and - most importantly - low occupancy in the oesophagus, meaning fewer chances of triggering the retch-o-meter.

I’m basically an air traffic controller for my stomach these days.

I thought back to when my gastroparesis was in full swing a few years ago. Barely eating, weight dropping fast.

Yes, I got thinner, but it wasn’t glamorous - more “Victorian ghost bride haunting an attic” vibes.

Hard pass.

Powered through work until 5pm.

Busy day, but I’m thrilled to report: NO RETCHING.

Honestly, someone play the Hallelujah chorus and light a candle.

A rare and glorious achievement.

Evening brought the smell of delicious Chinese (not a person, FOOD) - and my boyfriend’s, not mine (clarifying before the tabloids twist it).

Could I resist?

Absolutely not.

I performed a highly successful salt & pepper chicken heist.

And let me tell you - it was divine.

Not the stealing, the eating.

The jab is definitely wearing off now.

Tomorrow = new injection day, plus weigh-in.

Will I have lost more pounds?

Will the scale smile upon me?

Will Ruby finally let me have more than 6 inches of bed space?

Tune in tomorrow for another thrilling chapter.

For now, signing off Day 77: lucky double sevens, enlightened chicken thief, and zero-retching champion of the day.

Night night, Jabbers.

With Love,

JABatha Christie

Day 77. WOW. Let’s talk about sevens.

In numerology, a single 7 means wisdom, intuition, and spiritual awakening.

Basically, it’s the universe telling me I should be a zen guru, sitting cross-legged, eating lentils, and handing out profound advice like “don’t text your ex after wine.”

77 though?

Double wisdom, double intuition, double awakening.

The angel number crew say it means you’re on the right path.

Personally, I translate that as: permission for two desserts tonight.

Some also say it’s divine encouragement that your life choices are blessed. Which is comforting, considering I literally stole a piece of chicken today - but more on that later.

So yes, today carries mystical significance.

Either enlightenment is coming my way… or my next retching episode will sound like Gregorian chanting.

And how did this divine day start?

With my other half’s alarm at 6am - an alarm so loud it could wake an entire medieval village, the livestock, and possibly a few historical figures from their graves.

Add Ruby the Serial Purrer staging her daily cat orchestra on my chest, and I couldn’t decide if she wanted cuddles or was aggressively trying to evict me from the bed so she could sprawl like Cleopatra.

Early meetings awaited, of course.

No breakfast until 10:30, when I ate some lovely soda bread that my amazing other half bought me yesterday. YUM.

Had a couple of slices with smoked salmon and Polish pickles, which was heavenly… until the bread staged a sit-in protest in my oesophagus.

I knew what was coming.

Quickly washed it down with triple ginger tea, which at this point feels like my personal fire extinguisher.

Then back to the computer: more meetings, more PowerPoints, more me wondering how “mute” hasn’t won a Nobel Prize yet.

Meanwhile, I’m coughing, sniffing, and sneezing for England, which always threatens to bring on retching.

Yesterday, I sat next to a man on the train who coughed directly into the air, and I nearly yeeted him out of the carriage.

I do not need another flu, thank you very much.

Lunch-slash-dinner?

Tomato soup.

Nice, simple, and - most importantly - low occupancy in the oesophagus, meaning fewer chances of triggering the retch-o-meter.

I’m basically an air traffic controller for my stomach these days.

I thought back to when my gastroparesis was in full swing a few years ago. Barely eating, weight dropping fast.

Yes, I got thinner, but it wasn’t glamorous - more “Victorian ghost bride haunting an attic” vibes.

Hard pass.

Powered through work until 5pm.

Busy day, but I’m thrilled to report: NO RETCHING.

Honestly, someone play the Hallelujah chorus and light a candle.

A rare and glorious achievement.

Evening brought the smell of delicious Chinese (not a person, FOOD) - and my boyfriend’s, not mine (clarifying before the tabloids twist it).

Could I resist?

Absolutely not.

I performed a highly successful salt & pepper chicken heist.

And let me tell you - it was divine.

Not the stealing, the eating.

The jab is definitely wearing off now.

Tomorrow = new injection day, plus weigh-in.

Will I have lost more pounds?

Will the scale smile upon me?

Will Ruby finally let me have more than 6 inches of bed space?

Tune in tomorrow for another thrilling chapter.

For now, signing off Day 77: lucky double sevens, enlightened chicken thief, and zero-retching champion of the day.

Night night, Jabbers.

With Love,

JABatha Christie

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