Peru flu

I woke up at 11:00 pm, shaking with chills. I had a desperate urge to throw up and knew I had to find some sort of container, fast. But as I felt around in the darkness for my headlamp, I couldn't find it anywhere. Hadn't I left it in my tent before I fell asleep?

There wasn't time to look. I headed to the storage room, where I thought we had left an old cook pot. While on my way there, I kicked into the cultivator blade on the cultivator that had been left on the floor, slashing open my shin.

After I had emptied the ocean out of my stomach, I decided I needed to find a light. I was shaking so much that I couldn't walk straight. I couldn't figure out why I was so freezing cold. My hands were bumping clumsily along the walls as I tried to feel my way to John's room.

John handed me his headlamp, then immediately fell back asleep up on his high bunk. I was a little surprised. How had they all slept through my violent vomiting?

I found a thermometer and checked my temp: 103.2. I remember thinking that it was rather high, and wondering if I had malaria. I didn't have much time for musing as I dashed out the door, controlled by my old enemy, diarrhea.

I was up all night, alternating between miserable attacks of nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. Sometimes I burned with fever, sometimes I was so cold I could not have burrowed any deeper into the covers. The whole night I lay in a puddle of sweat and self pity. I kept thinking to myself how dreadful it was to be sick without water or plumbing or electricity. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself.

When I threw up at 4:00 am, Alex woke up and walked over to my room.

"Are you okay, Ansley?" he asked.

I wasn't sure how to respond.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I whispered.

I stayed in bed all day, exhausted, sweaty, empty, and unable to bring my fever down.

But the next day, I was better. I was seven pounds lighter, but the fever was gone. I got up, and went to make breakfast.