Je ne suis pas moi-même.

I can’t look at food.  I can’t smell food.  I can’t even THINK of food without getting nauseous.

For those of you who know me, these are three clear indications that I am NOT feeling myself.

I experienced something new today: a house call.  After throwing up all night again (this time I recorded a somewhat less impressive six trips to the bathroom), I decided enough was enough, and called Myriam (our program coordinator).  I told her I needed to see a doctor but that I didn’t have enough energy to leave my apartment and actually go to an office, so she made some phone calls and set everything up for me.  A mere 90 minutes later, the médecin (doctor) was here in my apartment, checking my blood pressure and asking me what my symptoms were.  He scribbled out some prescriptions for different medications, and also wrote out a note to give to my teachers so that I will be excused from missing class Tuesday and today.

I ventured over to the pharmacy for the second time this week, this time armed with my prescriptions.  15 minutes later, I was walking out with my little baggie of medicine.

Looking through my new stash of meds, I discovered that the doctor prescribed me an antibiotic to get rid of my sore throat (which I did not realize I had until he pointed it out), an antibiotic to calm and regulate my revolting stomach, and some other medicines to reduce my nausea, to lower my fever and to help my achiness.  I took a dose of them all a while ago, and they seem to be helping a bit; I’m not as dizzy or nauseous, although I am by no means hungry.

Hopefully this round of meds will help…being sick in Paris is neither fair nor fun.