And I have never been so glad to be in my cold and snowy country than I am RIGHT NOW.
I have a SHIT SHOW of a story for you... but since I'm trying not to resent the whole damn thing, I'm first going to recap the good news.
The Good News:
It was gorgeous. It rained a little, but not much, and the sun was warm.
The beach was AMAZING.
Our friends were so much fun. The beers were unlimited. The food was decent.
We swam with stingrays and sharks and fed the tropical fish. We danced on a party boat.
The staff were incredible, even teaching us how to curse in Spanish...
We walked an hour to the market, bought a bunch of crap, and got happily taken advantage of.
We slept in and stayed up late. We had an elevator dance party. We played Jenga.
We made a GIANT sand prison (because castles are too predictable).
WE BOOGY BOARDED. We swam in the waves.
On our last night, we partied it up, slid down the kiddie water slide around 2 am, got shooed away by security, hit up the late night bar, and went to sleep by 4:00.
And this is where the trouble started.
The Bad News:
Hubby woke up on our final day with what seemed like a nasty hangover... until that "hangover" got progressively worse, and worse, and worse. My friends and I went downstairs to check out at the front desk and choke down our final buffet lunch. When I returned to Hubb, I found him desperately ill sleeping on a bench in the hallway.
I tried to make him eat and drink, but keeping food down was a no-go. I decided we needed our room back so he could rest, but the front desk wasn't havin' it.
And then I started to cry.
They said I should take him to the resort doctor, at which point I realized that he could never walk that far.
And then I cried harder.
A security guard took a very delirious and frightened Hubby in a wheelchair to the doctor, who, when asked by the patient if death was imminent, responded with "only God knows that".
Quel Diablo. What the FUCK.
At this point cellphone roaming charges became immaterial so I started making calls to our insurance company. Hubby was rushed (hallucinating, terrified, and puking up his insides) into a cab and we took off to the hospital.
A FOREIGN HOSPITAL.
I checked Hubby in, and they started an IV for rehydration and antibiotics. "Anti-biotico." He had a severe gastro-intestinal infection. Hours passed, but he didn't get better, not even a little bit.
I sat on the floor in the hospital hallway outside of Hubby's Emergency Room curtain, sobbing like a baby. When the Spanish-speaking doctor found me balling, they scooped us up and devlivered us to a lovely little double room, admitting Hubby for the night.
Around this time, I was about to lose it. I'd already employed every possible grounding strategy and anxiety avoidance tool I had at my disposal. I was alone, and helpless, and scared out of my already-crazy mind. I was wearing my bathing suit under a skirt and tshirt, didn't have any food, and was even missing my crazy pills. Nobody spoke any English, Hubby was barely conscious, and I very quickly lost my cool.
So I called Momma - crying and alone, and needing to hear a friendly voice. Momma did what she does best. She calmed me down and kept me company. She even offered to come there, which was more than was needed but appreciated all the same.
She gave me the strength I needed to make a million calls: to our friends who were catching our flight; to our travel agency who would have to remove us from the flight; to our resort who would have to save our baggage; to our medical insurance company who would have to pay for everything; to our neighbours who were feeding the cats; to my boss who would wonder where the heck I was; etc, etc, etc.
All while Hubby was knocked out in the next room.
Time passed, I slept a little, and by morning Hubby was feeling a bit better. We thought we might be able to catch a flight home - or at least close to home where our family could pick us up.
But when the Doctor came in, he said we needed to stay ANOTHER NIGHT.
Another night? Seriously? Aaaaannnnnd... crying again.
Not to mention I hadn't eaten in 24 hours - the solution to which was to hop in a cab BY MYSELF headed to the nearby gas station to buy a croissant, a tin of peanuts, and a can of Pringles. All while still in my bathing suit.
Hubby started to improve. He ate some soup and his spirits lifted. We watched tv, played Crazy Eights, and waited for the day to pass. By night, we cuddled up in the little single hospital bed together and waited desperately for someone to tell us we could go home. We woke up to the sound of crowing roosters (!) and complained about the humidity. I refused to document this event, but was convinced to take this single photo.
Momma booked a flight, while I paced the room thinking that if I never saw another damn palm tree again it would be too fucking soon, wishing I could rip off the damn resort
Remember how anxious I was to go on this trip? How desperate I was? How much I was clinging to it? Well, when that doctor said we could go home, I had never been so desperate to leave a place as I was in that single solitary moment.
Getting the Fuck Out of There:
We packed up Hubby's goody bag of drugs and took a $75 cab back to the resort to get our bags, and then to the airport. We spent our very last US dollar, and even $5 Canadian. We got on the plane, sighing a giant breath of relief.
We landed in Montreal and were about to catch our connection home, when I realized that I didn't have our second boarding passes...
There had been an error in booking, and it turned out we were going to have to spend an extra night in Montreal.
OH MY GOD I'M GOING TO FAINT.
This can't happen. We need to GO HOME.
In the flurry of everyone running off our plane to catch their connections, the Air Canada staff saved the day. They fit us onto the plane, switched our luggage, charged us an additional 300 bucks, and WE RAN FASTER THAN WE HAVE EVER RUN to catch that flight.
We boarded that damn plane from the tarmac and tried to recover from our marathon in the cold, dry air.
Home Sweet Home:
Aside from a smelly/wet suitcase and some very lonely kitties, home was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
Momma said that when she went south, she was so happy for the warmth that she kissed the hot ground. When I got home I thought I might eat the snow.
Hubby was still sick but we were ok. Glad to be home. Glad to be safe.
The Saga Continues:
Yesterday after I took Hubby to the doctor, I got nauseous. By evening I was feverish and throwing up while Hubby held my head. I have not gotten off the couch since.
Hubby still can't eat anything except soup and crackers, and he slept all damn day.
I had to miss a psych appointment, a massage appointment, and tomorrow a dentist appointment. Not to mention WORK, which I have entirely abandoned.
I have not come to terms with all this yet. I am struggling. I am resentful and bitter.
And I may never leave my house again.