When we last left off, I was on an endorphin high! We had spent the afternoon on our own private island that was rapidly shrinking the last thirty minutes we were there. Now back at the resort, we can’t stop gushing about this phenomenal experience. Once I am no longer high on life, the uneasy feeling returns to my stomach. I opt out of the happy hour taking place at the restaurant with the other guests to try and lay down for a bit, hoping the feeling passes. Over the next two hours I go through highs and lows, thinking that I feel better only to feel worse. Paul wants to take some photos of the sunset, so I pull myself together. We find a small path that leads to a lookout point on top of a few rocks and Paul snaps away, capturing another glorious moment. Except for me, these photos are now synonymous with what was an almost “Charlotte in Mexico” moment. If you’ve never seen the Sex and the City movie, then this joke’s not for you. After abandoning Paul at our beautiful sunset overlook and running the entire way back to the room with my cheeks clenched, all I can do is hope that this is an isolated incident.
I meet Paul back at the overlook and we head over to the restaurant which is full of the resort guests who have been taking full advantage of the manager’s happy hour. Our trip to the sand spit earlier that day sparked a conversation between Paul and I as to how the someone can technically own the small sandbar that is underwater most of the day. Further, if the resort doesn’t own it, how can they charge a premium for a “private” experience if they can’t guarantee you’ll be the only ones there? Michael, the resort manager, greets us and wants our feedback on the day. We obviously have nothing but the most amazing things to say and use the opportunity to inquire on the questions that we were discussing amongst ourselves earlier. He tells us that no, they do not own the sand bar and no one does. Only a few locals know of it and they sometimes will use it for fishing or rugby practice. Talk about a buzzkill! Fortunately, he says there has only been a time or two when resort guests ventured out to find that they would not be alone for the afternoon.
Oh no. My stomach feels like it is trying out for the Olympic gymnastics team: flip, after flip, after flip. I hope that I’m not about to receive the gold medal for “Most Embarrassing Projectile Vomit in a Public Place”. Paul is having a long conversation with Michael about how appreciative we are of the entire staff and how much they contributed to our wonderful experience here. Chills. Sweaty upper lip. I’m silently calling out for help! My vision starts to blur and I feel like I’m about to hit the ground. Wrap up this conversation, Paul.
It comes to an end and I could not be more thankful. I tell Paul how terrible I’m feeling and I reluctantly sit down at the dinner table. This only lasts for about 5 minutes before we ask for our meal to be brought to the room. Once there, I curl up on the couch. Our food is delivered and I can’t eat. This is the first time since we’ve been here that I miss technology. All I want to do is lay in bed and watch a movie. A lightbulb goes off. “Paul, does your laptop have a disc drive?” Remember, there are no TVs. During our initial tour of the island I remembered that next to the gym there was a small library of DVDs. Paul goes to check out the scene and returns with a portable DVD player and three movies: Here Comes the Boom, White Chicks and Pretty Woman. He assures me that these are the best titles amongst the small collection. I turn the ironing board into a media center, placing the DVD player on top and enclosing the entire thing within the safety of the mosquito net. I begin to feel feverish and realize that I will probably not be taking part in the jet ski tour that is happening tomorrow morning.
The entire next day is spent in bed, only getting up each time that I am violently ill. Paul goes off to the jet ski excursion. I insisted that he went, there was nothing he could do for me and I preferred some privacy. The next 8 hours are a blur of bathroom visits, vomiting in a trash can, sleeping, watching Pretty Woman and panicking at the inability for me to click any website that popped up on the results page after Googling my symptoms. By the time Paul returns, I am in the same position as when he left me but now am concerned I have Malaria. Well, not exactly. See, here’s the thing. I’m not a hypochondriac and I don’t use the internet to convince myself that a headache is a tumor. I do, however, use it to thoroughly research if something’s not quite right. Unfortunately for me in this situation, the slow internet connection is only making it possible for me to read the first three lines or so on any website that was pulled up in the Google search results. And unfortunately for Paul, one of those read that while Malaria is not common in Fiji, there have been 15 cases reported since the beginning of 2015.
Me self-diagnosing me, Paul or our dog is usually a point of contention. Back in 2013, something was not quite right with Travis. We had just returned from a trip to Toronto where Paul was living at the time, and before we went to bed that night, he was making weird noises that later woke me up out of a dead sleep. Call it mother’s instinct, but something was telling me that he had Kennel Cough. Keep in mind I have never had a dog who had kennel cough or been around one, but after 30 minutes on YouTube searching videos and hearing the raspy noises of dogs who had it, I knew that this would be his diagnosis. I called Paul and told him I was taking Travis to the vet immediately after they opened to get him treated to which he replied, “Okay Dr. Google”. At first I was angry that he didn’t believe me, but then that turned to a “That’s okay, I’ll show you” moment. Nothing wrong with a little bit of healthy competition. Fast forward two hours later and I call Paul as we’re leaving the vet. “What did they say, Paul asked. “They said he has Kennel cough” Dr. Google for the win. Boom.
We also ran into a similar situation earlier this year when I developed a rash on the side of my torso. I told Paul I thought it was Shingles, but he tried to convince me that it was a reaction to “Chinese chemicals” in my bras from Victoria’s Secret. I’d like to think that Dr. Google was victorious yet again, however, I don’t really consider being diagnosed with Shingles as “#winning”.
Getting back to present day, Paul assures me I’m going to be “fine” and that I need to relax because “50 percent of people get traveler’s diarrhea while away”. I kindly remind him that 50 percent of marriages end in divorce, so he better show damn some compassion. Hiyyyaaa!
“Okay, calm down crazy” I think as I remind myself that we have different ways of showing our feelings. His way of showing compassion is telling me a story about how sick he was in India and how he projectile vomited and an entire shrimp came up and shot out 7 feet. It was his way of letting me know that everything was going to be okay ❤
We order room service and eat our last dinner in paradise on our balcony, listening as the waves crash below. Paul eats a burger as I take a few bites of the delicious, dry toast (insert sarcastic tone) and wash it down with some ginger ale. Paul tells me about his jet ski and snorkel adventure and makes me feel better by telling me that I didn’t miss out on anything and that I “probably wouldn’t have liked it anyways”. As I lay down in bed watching White Chicks, I can’t help but dread the long journey we will be going to return home to Chicago tomorrow. On the bright side, at least my little Trav will be waiting for me!
