Sorry to hear about
the ordeal. My prediction is that due to the high volume production of loose stool and low volume of consumption of food, the runs will come to a halt, and only a couple days later will your bowels start to walk again. So I think you will bake a cake Thursday around 7:00 PM.
Why do I think this? I'm also a North American who relocated to Europe only to experience a most excruciating, worrying, and all-in-all miserable intestinal experience.
I am a Canadian; I now live in Brno, Czech Republic. The incident which I parallel with yours began on a Friday. I went on a trip to Znojmo (say Znoymo) for the purposes of drinking myself silly. Here in Moravia, wine is consumed at every point in its production. Young wine that is only just starting to ferment is called Burèák (say Boorchalk); it looks like good quality apple cider, has an alcohol content slightly more than beer, and goes down easily. It is dangerous.
In line with the Platonic ideal of a night of drinking here in CZ, we were out until about 7:30 AM. Passed out on the train home, we were roused by the awful screech of the brakes as we pulled in to Brno. My friends and I got off, stumbled to our respective tram stops, and went home. I woke up on Saturday at about 2:00 PM, took a nice solid central European dump, felt quite fine and was utterly amazed about it. I had something to eat, watched some cartoons and even went to the office to do a bit of work.
Around 6:00 PM, I got a call from my friend, who had arranged to meet with some girls an hour or so later. I got dressed and, delighted with the spring in my step after such a heavy night of drinking, again boarded the tram and headed downtown. We met the girls and had some wine; they turned out to be boring, so we ditched them, met some other girls, had some beer and pizza; the other grew boring, so we ditched them, went for scotch, and went home. I felt like I should eat something before passing out so I stopped at the gas station (the only thing open in my neighborhood at 3:30 AM) and bought Czech chips and some OJ. I downed them both watching VH1 and went to bed.
Sunday morning. I woke up and again hung a nice log on the side of my toilet. Czech toilets, it seems, are the opposite of their British counterparts: sit too far back on the seat and you can actually get it to stick to the side of the bowl. I have a lot of fun with this.
A couple of hours later, it hit. It was painfully obvious that quite soon something was going to come out of me. Guessing that I was after all going to pay for my weekend of corporeal negligence, I shrugged my shoulders, thinking, "Fair is fair." I grabbed a book and went to face the music.
I would never have thought that a bowel movement could have been so painful, so dehumanizing, so explosive, so exhausting. My butt barfed. Jet after jet surged from my arse, coating my toilet with a most vile yellow-green substance. The smell was horrid -- rusty metal, shit, and rotten everything. The energy required to generate these pucker-pukes was phenomenal. After three or four of these blasts, I was completely done up. "Phew," thought I, "that was pretty fucked up!"
Then the nausea set in. Sitting there on the shitter in my tiny little crapping closet, I started to sweat. I got dizzy and knew right away that I was to pay rather heavily for my actions. Lucky for me, there is a sink within range; I had but to lean forward to let loose the juice. I threw up so hard, so vehemently, that my eyes ceased to function and my hands and my feet cramped up and contorted and could not be moved for ten whole minutes.
After five or six heaves, I sat there on the shitter, totally gimped out, blind, drained in every sense of the word, and completely miserable.
Good thing I couldn't move because a few minutes later more liquid turd poured out of my tail end. Keeping in line the call and response piece my ass and mouth were composing, I threw up again, and had to wait another ten minutes for my vision to return and for the ability to use my hands and feet.
This back and forth went on as I went back and forth from bedroom to bathroom. From 10:30 AM to 5:30 PM, every "shit" (term used "loosely") was physically and emotionally draining, and was followed by a blinding, paralyzing blowing of chunks. At one point I was worried that I would suffer permanent nerve damage.
On Monday I woke up feeling a little weird, but nothing came out of either end; only a little bit went in. Tuesday I ate more or less as I usually do, i.e. a lot. Wednesday was the same, but still nothing. I thought maybe I had gone from one extreme to another, because a usual day for me includes at least two hung rats. On Thursday the goods were at last delivered. The thing was -- for two-and-a-half days worth of material of which my body had no use, it wasn't that much. Just the same, it was nice to shit something solid again.
The next night was Friday. To celebrate my recovery I went out and got drunk.
-- Jack Scat
Editor's note: his guess on my predicament was way off. I'm STILL dripping brown Kool-Aid.
