Chapter 5
The passage of time was soon lost on Frodo. He long ago lost track of the hour, much less what day it was. Not that it really mattered; his illness kept its own schedule. He drifted in and out of consciousness between episodes of throwing up. At first he tried to make it to the bathroom, but the dizziness made it difficult so he abandoned that idea and went to the kitchen to get a basin. He also made another pot of ginger tea, not that it was helping anyway, but it may yet, and attempted unsuccessfully to eat some bread. The ache in his throat prohibited the swallowing of anything solid, even liquids were somewhat difficult to get down. He would have tried eating some broth or soup, but he had none and couldn't make any. Even if he did, his stomach would probably reject it like it rejected the bread and apple from before.
As he sat at the table waiting for the tea to steep, Frodo remembered he needed more firewood in the study. There was that pile in the pantry, but how in Middle-Earth was he going to get some to the study? He couldn't carry the tea and a load of wood all at the same time, but he was loath to attempt more than one trip back and forth at a time; he knew he wouldn't make it. Even the trip to or from the kitchen was draining enough to require him to sit down to catch his breath and regain his strength.
Frodo tried to think of some way to make it work; unfortunately it is rather difficult to think rationally when your head is pounding, body is aching, lungs are burning, and all you want to do is curl up in a miserable ball on the floor. As he tried to think, his chills ceased and he began to sweat. He let go of the quilt around his shoulders, and as it slid to the smooth tile floor, Frodo had an idea.
Fifteen minutes later saw Frodo staggering triumphantly out of the kitchen, dragging his quilt behind. He had piled some of the firewood in the middle, placed the basin holding the tea pot on the quilt tail just behind the wood, and carefully pulled the whole thing like a sled. His foray into the pantry for the firewood had also uncovered a jar of honey, which he put into the tea to make it more soothing for his throat.
While the setup slowed his snail's pace even further, he made it the short distance down the hall to the study without incident. Upon reaching his sanctuary, Frodo longed to drop everything and go right back to sleep, but he forced himself to rebuild the fire (which had nearly gone out during his absence) and put the teapot and everything else within easy reach of his chair. Only then did he allow himself to burrow back into his nest, shivering uncontrollably. He stared out the small window as he drifted back toward sleep and noted half-heartedly that it was snowing. But he didn't really care.
~~~~~~
Hot. Frodo awoke sweating, even though the fire was dying. Snow was still falling outside his window, and he briefly considered going out and rolling in the snow, but it would take too much effort and movement to go out there, so he decided not to.
He managed to pour himself a glass of water from the waiting pitcher, then downed it giving no attention to his burning throat. Still thirsty, he turned his attention to the cold ginger tea he forgot to drink earlier. Once he successfully drank a cup of tea, he would try more water-hopefully the tea would prevent the water from coming back up. He knew he needed as much water as he could keep down; he was extremely thirsty and could practically feel his skin getting dry, which he didn't think was good. The profuse sweating was certainly not aiding the situation.
After drinking the tea and tossing more wood haphazardly onto the fire, Frodo waited a few moments to gauge his stomach's reaction before attempting more water. After all, what was the use of drinking more if it was just going to come back up anyway? By now he had stopped sweating and was back to shivering, his damp clothing no help in the matter.
He was just about to try the water again when he felt everything coming back up. Thankful for his foresight, Frodo grabbed the basin and heaved. The bile made his throat burn worse, so once he was done he rinsed his mouth to get rid of the bitter taste, but didn't try to drink anything, having learned from the experience that nothing would stay down. Then he miserably curled back up in the chair and despondently wondered how long it would take until someone found him.
Frodo now wished he had told the Brandybucks he was coming; if he had, someone would've come looking for him. And he knew none of his other friends would be dropping in, they were all with their families for Yule. Like he should be. Even Sam was gone, he and his gaffer not due back to work until 2 Afteryule, the day he was expected back from Buckland. So Sam or the Gaffer wouldn't find him until then . . . how far away was that? He didn't know, but desperately hoped it would be sooner rather than later. He would just have to manage until then . . . he really didn't like caring for himself while being ill, that much he knew for certain.
~~~~~~~~~~
As time dragged on, Frodo's periods of consciousness became fewer and shorter in length as his condition worsened. The urge to throw up still woke him occasionally, though it would only amount to dry heaves, as he had nothing in his stomach to expel. When he had a bout of heaves, it usually turned into a coughing fit, which irritated his throat further and left him even more exhausted.
He grew tired of his curled position in the chair, so he turned and rested his head on one arm and carefully placed his legs-still snugly wrapped in blankets, of course-over the other arm. After his stomach adjusted to the change, Frodo let himself relax. The position reminded him of the way his mother used to hold him in her lap when he was ill. As he drifted back to sleep, Frodo imagined he was again in his mother's embrace, safe and cared for.
The passage of time was soon lost on Frodo. He long ago lost track of the hour, much less what day it was. Not that it really mattered; his illness kept its own schedule. He drifted in and out of consciousness between episodes of throwing up. At first he tried to make it to the bathroom, but the dizziness made it difficult so he abandoned that idea and went to the kitchen to get a basin. He also made another pot of ginger tea, not that it was helping anyway, but it may yet, and attempted unsuccessfully to eat some bread. The ache in his throat prohibited the swallowing of anything solid, even liquids were somewhat difficult to get down. He would have tried eating some broth or soup, but he had none and couldn't make any. Even if he did, his stomach would probably reject it like it rejected the bread and apple from before.
As he sat at the table waiting for the tea to steep, Frodo remembered he needed more firewood in the study. There was that pile in the pantry, but how in Middle-Earth was he going to get some to the study? He couldn't carry the tea and a load of wood all at the same time, but he was loath to attempt more than one trip back and forth at a time; he knew he wouldn't make it. Even the trip to or from the kitchen was draining enough to require him to sit down to catch his breath and regain his strength.
Frodo tried to think of some way to make it work; unfortunately it is rather difficult to think rationally when your head is pounding, body is aching, lungs are burning, and all you want to do is curl up in a miserable ball on the floor. As he tried to think, his chills ceased and he began to sweat. He let go of the quilt around his shoulders, and as it slid to the smooth tile floor, Frodo had an idea.
Fifteen minutes later saw Frodo staggering triumphantly out of the kitchen, dragging his quilt behind. He had piled some of the firewood in the middle, placed the basin holding the tea pot on the quilt tail just behind the wood, and carefully pulled the whole thing like a sled. His foray into the pantry for the firewood had also uncovered a jar of honey, which he put into the tea to make it more soothing for his throat.
While the setup slowed his snail's pace even further, he made it the short distance down the hall to the study without incident. Upon reaching his sanctuary, Frodo longed to drop everything and go right back to sleep, but he forced himself to rebuild the fire (which had nearly gone out during his absence) and put the teapot and everything else within easy reach of his chair. Only then did he allow himself to burrow back into his nest, shivering uncontrollably. He stared out the small window as he drifted back toward sleep and noted half-heartedly that it was snowing. But he didn't really care.
~~~~~~
Hot. Frodo awoke sweating, even though the fire was dying. Snow was still falling outside his window, and he briefly considered going out and rolling in the snow, but it would take too much effort and movement to go out there, so he decided not to.
He managed to pour himself a glass of water from the waiting pitcher, then downed it giving no attention to his burning throat. Still thirsty, he turned his attention to the cold ginger tea he forgot to drink earlier. Once he successfully drank a cup of tea, he would try more water-hopefully the tea would prevent the water from coming back up. He knew he needed as much water as he could keep down; he was extremely thirsty and could practically feel his skin getting dry, which he didn't think was good. The profuse sweating was certainly not aiding the situation.
After drinking the tea and tossing more wood haphazardly onto the fire, Frodo waited a few moments to gauge his stomach's reaction before attempting more water. After all, what was the use of drinking more if it was just going to come back up anyway? By now he had stopped sweating and was back to shivering, his damp clothing no help in the matter.
He was just about to try the water again when he felt everything coming back up. Thankful for his foresight, Frodo grabbed the basin and heaved. The bile made his throat burn worse, so once he was done he rinsed his mouth to get rid of the bitter taste, but didn't try to drink anything, having learned from the experience that nothing would stay down. Then he miserably curled back up in the chair and despondently wondered how long it would take until someone found him.
Frodo now wished he had told the Brandybucks he was coming; if he had, someone would've come looking for him. And he knew none of his other friends would be dropping in, they were all with their families for Yule. Like he should be. Even Sam was gone, he and his gaffer not due back to work until 2 Afteryule, the day he was expected back from Buckland. So Sam or the Gaffer wouldn't find him until then . . . how far away was that? He didn't know, but desperately hoped it would be sooner rather than later. He would just have to manage until then . . . he really didn't like caring for himself while being ill, that much he knew for certain.
~~~~~~~~~~
As time dragged on, Frodo's periods of consciousness became fewer and shorter in length as his condition worsened. The urge to throw up still woke him occasionally, though it would only amount to dry heaves, as he had nothing in his stomach to expel. When he had a bout of heaves, it usually turned into a coughing fit, which irritated his throat further and left him even more exhausted.
He grew tired of his curled position in the chair, so he turned and rested his head on one arm and carefully placed his legs-still snugly wrapped in blankets, of course-over the other arm. After his stomach adjusted to the change, Frodo let himself relax. The position reminded him of the way his mother used to hold him in her lap when he was ill. As he drifted back to sleep, Frodo imagined he was again in his mother's embrace, safe and cared for.