Day 84: The Cold One (a.k.a. Edward from Twilight, but with Gastroparesis)

Worked from home today, which sounds relaxing in theory - in reality, it was a phlegm-filled, retch-powered symphony of coughs, wheezes and feline interruptions.

My cold (or virus, or whatever uninvited germ rave this is) came back with the vengeance of an ex who suddenly remembered your Netflix password.

I couldn’t stop coughing - partly the virus, partly the gastroparesis, partly my body’s way of saying “let’s see how far we can push the retching boundary today.”

Spoiler: very far.

As per usual, the Cat Podcast began at dawn.

Ruby was the first speaker - all “meep meep” like a feathered gremlin in a furry coat - and then Molly, clearly tired of being a downstairs civilian, decided to permanently relocate upstairs to join the “purr and duvet theft syndicate.”

These two act like they pay rent in cuddles.

I love them to bits though - nothing like waking up with a tail in your face and a paw firmly pressed against your trachea to remind you that you’re alive.

Managed to have a heroic breakfast: soda bread with ham.

Nothing fancy, but I felt like Nigella in a flu-induced fever dream.

It didn’t last long - cue the dry heaving orchestra.

Honestly, I’m convinced my body just doesn’t want me to digest anymore. It’s like, “We’re a retention-only establishment now.

No swallowing.

No service.”

At this point, I’ve concluded that 7.5 (Mounjaro dose) is not doing me any favours. It’s giving me “GastroRetchFest 2025” rather than the sleek appetite suppression I signed up for.

So I’ve decided to downgrade to 5.

Already ordered.

I’m finishing the pen out of pure stubbornness - and maybe a touch of masochism.

But honestly, it’s getting embarrassing.

Every time I eat, cough, or dare to speak for more than three minutes, I retch like a malfunctioning frog.

You know that sound they make during mating season?

That’s me, during Teams calls.

And speaking of Teams… it’s starting to affect my work.

Imagine presenting slides on quarterly results while trying to discretely mute yourself mid-gag.

My colleagues must think I’m harbouring a ghost or have taken up yodelling.

Lunch? Forget it. Didn’t have it, couldn’t face it. At this point, food is more of an abstract concept - a rumour I once believed in.

Had to leave early anyway for an ultrasound of my arm.

Honestly, my body’s turning into a full-time investigation.

As expected, the ultrasound showed something odd, so now I need an MRI because apparently my deltoid muscle has decided to be rare and mysterious.

Fantastic.

My arm’s giving “Limited Edition Collector’s Item” energy.

Basically, I’m getting an MOT of the entire limb.

At this rate, I might as well get a full diagnostic printout like a car.

“Right deltoid: slight wear and tear. Stomach: needs replacement. Emotional stability: running low.”

It’s starting to do my head in.

Literally and metaphorically.

Between the cough, the arm, and the eternal retching, I’m like a walking medical drama, but with less glamour and more snot.

Not much actually happened today, unless you count my slow descent into germy madness.

But there’s a lot going on upstairs - in my head.

Thoughts, overthinking, self-diagnosis via Google (which, by the way, has convinced me I might have 14 different tropical diseases).

For now, I’ll just wait for the results and try not to spiral.

Evening salvation came in the form of couch cuddles with my man and some telly: Grand Designs and Bake Off.

Truly the British comfort combo.

Watching Kevin McCloud question people’s life choices as they build a house shaped like a Lego brick while I sip tea under three blankets - that’s my kind of therapy.

Speaking of Bake Off - there’s a bake-off at work in November, and guess who’s already planning to unleash her famous Bakewell Tart?

That’s right.

Me.

The Queen of Almond and Jam.

It’s divine.

If Paul Hollywood doesn’t show up personally to give me a handshake, it’ll be a crime against dessert.

But let’s circle back to an increasingly weird phenomenon: the Mounjaro Coldness. I swear, I’ve become a human glacier.

I’ve always been a bit nippy, but now I feel like I’m permanently auditioning for Frozen 3.

Sometimes my nails go blue.

BLUE.

I look down and think, “Oh, fabulous, I’ve transitioned into Avatar.”

All I need is a tail and a connection to a tree god and I’m set.

Seriously though, I feel like Edward from Twilight - pale, cold, and weirdly brooding over a ham sandwich.

“The cold one,” but instead of seducing Bella, I’m seducing my hot water bottle.

Anyway, that’s it from me - The Chilly Retcher of House Gastroparesis.

Weigh-in and jab day tomorrow, which probably means another episode of The Chronicles of Sickness: JABatha Returns.

Until then, I’ll be under a pile of blankets, coughing like a Dickensian orphan, flanked by two furry nurses who think purring is medical care.

Pray for my deltoid.

And for the Bakewell Tart.

Both deserve a happy ending.

With Love,

JABatha Christie