Spain, stop making me sick. Please.

Ok, so I have gone back and forth many times about whether or not I should share the events of my weekend. The concluding decision is that, yes, because it is the truth, I will share it. Regardless of embarrassing factors, too much information, or what not, I am committed to sharing the truth and only the truth.

Beginning Thursday evening, my digestive system began waging war on my body. Simply put, it refused to take part in any of the normal, healthy biological processes in which food is broken down, and then expelled from your body. This continued through Friday and Saturday.

Coincidentally, this weekend also happened to be when our Madre had family coming to visit-- her two sons, her daughter in law, and her granddaughter. So we had a pretty full house. On Saturday night, my stomach was rumbling like never before. While the rest of the house was asleep, I spent the hours of 1 AM to 4 AM trudging back and forth between the bathroom and my bed, trying to get over the nausea. At one of the many times I awoke, I felt seriously nauseaus so I brought the trashcan right next to my bed. And lucky thing I did, because soon enough, the remaining contents of my stomach woke me up as they were being spewed out of my mouth.

As you can assume, Andrea, sleeping 2 feet away from me, woke up in a fury, jumped out of bed, and turned on the light. In an attempt to avoid vomiting herself, she went into the bathroom to escape the smell (I would have done the same thing-- I can't handle vomit). So after she quickly jumped out of bed, she took two steps into the hallway, and all I know after that is I heard a loud THUD as her head hit the floor. See, Andrea has really low blood pressure. And after flying out of bed and then walking towards the bathroom, she fainted.

So let me recap--It's 4 AM, I'm in bed with my head hanging in a trashcan, Andrea is passed out on the hallway floor, and in that very moment, I hear the front door being unlocked. Our Madre's son and his wife just returned home after going out to a bar for the night. The entire house is awake, and the two of us are physically falling apart.

The entire house became involved with our respective afflictions-- Marta, the daughter in law, tended to Andrea in the hall, who had gone completely white, and was sweating out of every pore of her body. And our Madre dragged me into her bathroom and shoved my head into the toilet. At this point, she didn't even ask any questions-- I am sure she was convinced we were both drunk. After forcing her to stop freaking out and to actually listen to us, I think she realized we were both actually sick. The way she handled the whole situation was just really selfish-- she kept telling us how scared we made her, how she couldn't sleep for the rest of the night, how terrible we made her feel. Please. We were the ones falling apart.

So for the past day or so, I haven't been served any greasy, fried food. Only plain white rice, and simple, easy to digest meals. I might have to start pretending that I'm sick every day, because I'm finally being served foods that my body can handle, and I like it.