She took one bite, and her face puffed. I handed her a plastic bag, but she couldn't open it quickly enough. Out poured her vomit, splashing over her hands, her clothes, landed on my trousers and on my feet. Bits and pieces of food flowing in yellow stomach juices. We stood there, both sprayed with vomit. Mum looked apologetic. I quickly handed her tissues and helped wipe her clean, or as clean as I could get her clean before rushing back to her bed. My clothes were stained with her vomit, but it didn't bother me. Not the slightest bit.
Before we left the rooftop garden, I looked back at the puddle of vomit on the ground. Disappointed, deflated... I just wanted to give her breathe of fresh air and, finally after so many days of just liquids and IV drips, some solid and nutritious foods. But her body rejects it. Rejects it all... How could I bear to eat what she could not...?
Just when you're made to believe things are getting better, things get worse...
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