2:16 Food Poisoning Messes With My Thoughts

Mr Effy and I were hit with nasty food poisoning last weekend, taking it turns in the toilet throughout the Friday night. At four in the morning we have a house call from a doctor, a stubby Russian woman with spiky orange hair, who jabs lollypop sticks in both our mouths, a thermometer under our armpits, goes to the toilet, returns, writes out a bill of 160 shekels together and leaves. Both of us sit in a state of confusion, having not been given an answer to our nauseating predicament. The night had at least provided us with the bonding experience vomiting together, etc. Yet it was truly frustrating. We had eaten and drunk so many different things just three hours before, so to pinpoint our error was impossible … the tuna, the tortilla chips, the chicken, the wine, the water or was it the chocolate fondue? The following morning my face was a raspberry, blood shot and swollen, what a pretty sight.

I couldn’t help myself but be metaphorical about these past events. So many things have gone on in my past, so many decisions I made, challenges I faced, and somehow I ended up here. I wonder which choice of all the choices had brought me to this point? What was the cause of my dilemmas right now? If I hadn’t taken a bite of this, a nibble of that, then maybe some things would have turned out different. Maybe I wouldn’t be stuck at home right now instead of working in a cafe, because I fear the waiter’s reaction to my grossly blood shot eyes. And, maybe I won’t be stuck at home, with scraps of money in the bank and wondering how I ended up here in the first place.

Yesterday morning my dad dropped me home in a cab after breakfast and headed back to England. For the first occasion ever, he left me crying. This time was really hard, actually the hardest it has ever been, because this time, he gave it to me straight. He left me pondering with questions and dilemmas that need answering. He could read my thoughts, as if they had been laid out by the waitress on the table, amongst the coffee and croissants. But he couldn’t pop a stick in my mouth, take my temperature, and give me an answer to life’s larger questions.

I realized I need to take control of things and actually jump on the tidal wave of life. It’s as if I have been sitting in transit in an airport terminal the last few years. People fly into Tel Aviv, and eventually go back home. Whereas, I am in one place, sat in the terminal, waiting to fly off in a direction, but realizing I am still here, as this is not a terminal, it is actually my home. There is no doctor with a prescription waiting on hand for me. I realized there isn’t anyone to rely on in transit, except my one constant, who will hopefully work out my remedy.