Opinion
The five stages of surviving gastro (according to the five stages of grief)
Thomas Mitchell
Culture reporterA few weeks ago, I was in the midst of a text exchange with my wife, covering the kind of inane issues that make up the daily domestic agenda. Has the electricity bill been paid? Yes. Is the mince in the fridge still good? I think so.
Before we could discuss whether a new episode of our show had dropped, my wife steered the conversation in a terrifying direction: “I feel a bit funny in the tummy, do you?”
I don’t know, do I? Almost the minute she texted the idea into existence, I wondered if I had been feeling a bit off: a rumbling of discomfort, the early signs of nausea.
You may try your hardest to avoid it, but it’s only a matter of time before you’re staring into the abyss, wondering where it all went wrong (and who you caught it from). Credit: Michael Howard
Determined not to let my psychological weakness take over, I replied with a confidence that would only backfire later: “No, I think I’m sweet! Hope you’re not getting sick!” followed by several spew face emojis, a valiant attempt at injecting humour into the situation.
There was little to laugh about later that evening when my wife’s “funny in the tummy” graduated to full-blown gastro.
How rapidly a tiny apartment becomes a house of horrors when a contagious loved one has hijacked the single bathroom. Cowering in the corner with my yet-to-be-infected son, I did my best to offer support in the form of useless reminders to “keep the fluids up!”
My wife was quick to remind me that she couldn’t keep anything down, and could I please shut up so she could focus on slowly passing away?
At some point, gastro comes for us all, the uncomfortable twist in the stomach followed by waves of dread. If we accept that household illnesses exist on a spectrum, with the common cold being down the bottom – innocent but manageable – gastro sits right at the top. So foul is the concept that when forced to admit it to others, our voices reduce to a whisper: “I think I have gastro.”
It should come as no surprise that my 15-month-old son, with his nonexistent immune system, soon followed his mother to the sick bay. This was our first encounter with childhood gastro, and it was just as disgusting and depressing as people warned.
At the best of times, toddlers act like obnoxious drunks – cranky, unpredictable, swaying – but add a stomach bug into the mix, and he was more like a career alcoholic. Menacingly silent and vomiting violently.
With two out of three down, I secretly relished my status as last man standing. Concerned relatives sent welfare checks, and I would provide an update that casually highlighted my heroism. “Yes, all OK here,” I texted my mother-in-law. “Patients are under the weather but in good hands. Lots of dry toast and making sure they keep their fluids up!”
So perhaps pride led me to ignore the dull headache and mild fever. Sure, my muscles were aching, but I put this down to the heavy burden of carrying my family.
With the benefit of hindsight, I now know I was deep in denial, which also happens to be the first step in the five stages of grief described by the famed Swiss psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross.
According to Kübler-Ross, denial is followed by anger, bargaining, depression and, finally, acceptance. Kübler-Ross popularised this theory in her 1969 book, On Death and Dying, which is also an apt way to describe the scene in our house once the gastro took hold of me. As it turns out, the five stages of processing grief are remarkably similar to the five stages of surviving gastro.
Imagine posing for this stock photo.Credit: iStock
Next came anger, in the form of a forensic investigation into who could’ve possibly infected us. Naturally, my wife and I settled on daycare, a petri dish we have the pleasure of paying for. Our mutual rage offered a brief respite from the symptoms; nothing galvanises a sick couple like a common enemy.
Rising in the middle of the night to recreate the famous scene from The Exorcist, I arrived squarely at bargaining. Lying on the bathroom floor, I made a promise to whoever might be listening that should this nightmare end soon, I would no longer walk past charity muggers at the train station.
When that doesn’t work, depression sets in – Will I ever enjoy another meal? What was life like in 2024 BG (before gastro)? – until I eventually cross over into acceptance. Having conceded the fight, a strange calm comes over the entire house; everyone is horizontal, silent, and still.
Together, we are infected, draped across different bits of furniture, no longer worried about what time it might be or which day it is.
We stay like this for an eternity until my wife announces that she is feeling a bit better, hungry even. The return of her appetite represents a glimmer of hope, but my enthusiasm fades just as quickly as it arrives. The fridge door opens, and I hear my name followed by several curse words not fit for print. It seems the mince wasn’t good, after all.
Find more of the author’s work here. Email him at thomas.mitchell@smh.com.au or follow him on Instagram at @thomasalexandermitchell and on Twitter @_thmitchell.
Find out the next TV, streaming series and movies to add to your must-sees. Get The Watchlist delivered every Thursday.