When gastro strikes: how to limit the damage on a cruise ship
After being caught up in a recent gastro outbreak, I left my ship part sick, part desperate, with a dash of devil crazy.
Remember the infamous spider-walk scene that was deleted from The Exorcist? You know, the one in which demon-possessed Regan, mouth spewing, eyes angry, crawls backwards down the stairs?
That’s how people get around on cruise ships. OK, most of the time they don’t. But after I was caught up in a recent gastro outbreak, that’s certainly how I left the ship: part sick, part desperate, two parts neurotic with just a dash of devil crazy.
Norovirus is a type of viral gastroenteritis that easily spreads. It usually leads to sickness (telltale vomiting and diarrhoea) within a day or two of infection, and lasts a day or two, but the virus lives for longer. In confined spaces it can spread quickly but healthy victims will recover.
For most people, gastro is a personal thing. It’s a bed-to-toilet-to-bed proposition. Any bodily excretions are known only to you and various inanimate objects. And everything passes.
For parents, it’s a time to nurture the young, learning those subtle cues as to when a child will suddenly erupt or need a cuddle. For a child with a vomiting parent, it’s a time to scream in fear or laugh in contempt, all loyalty lost.
Now, gastro and I have been bunk buddies before. As a child, several holidays started with a sudden spewfest and ended with a cautious diet of lemonade and plain chips. Some people may claim that in my innocent rush to press the button at the crossing or elevator, my rhythmical displays on the escalator, my efforts to map new places by artfully tracing my fingers along walls and windows, I would catch anything.
But I am older now. Wiser. Healthier. When the latest round of vomiting took me in the middle of night, the fever and nausea wrestling me on to the bathroom floor, I knew what it was. I knew it could potentially affect anyone. I knew what the virus expected of me and what I expected of it. I knew my children, deep down, would be in awe of my bravery, believing father had taken a bullet for them.
That’s why, when the cruise ship PA system asked sick passengers to register their illness with the clinic, I felt I had things under control. I told the nurse that I’d just keep up my fluids and ride it out. By mid-afternoon, however, I had buckled like a steel girder in an earthquake. The fever raged inside, every muscle creaking and screaming, fluids seemingly ineffective. I had thrown up several vital organs and what appeared to be the tiny bones from my foot. The nurse put me in an induced coma (or gave me an injection to help me sleep, whatever) and I remained in relative isolation until we left.
With passengers unable to simply go home — a self-quarantine that limits contagion in the community — crew members donned masks for disinfection. Pools and spas were closed, self-service food outlets shut down, board games taken away, and hand sanitisers placed everywhere.
Sixty-nine of the 2065 people on our ship were struck down with norovirus, and a similar number on its next cruise. When we pulled into Sydney Harbour, another ship had already attracted media attention with more than 180 victims among 4700 on board. A 3 per cent infection rate requires authorities to be notified, and last year, before our outbreak, four of 242 cruise ships in Sydney raised the alarm.
Now, here’s the thing: as much as I can laugh off the experience (better to get gastro at the end of the cruise, after all those buffets — am I right?) there are people who aren’t so fortunate. When norovirus spreads through a vulnerable community, for example an aged-care facility or hospital, it can be deadly. Poor hygiene and lack of common sense can have fatal consequences.
So, do the spider walk and take the stairs. Avoid touching banisters or buttons or anything other people may have touched. Scream like a demon to warn off the hair-beaded filthmongers and demand everyone else wash their hands. Isolate yourself for protection — your protection and everyone else’s — and stay hydrated.
Gastro isn’t just a cruise ship thing. It’s a virus, and it is seasonal: outbreaks are happening now, as kids go to daycare and people return to work or school. So, wash your hands, people.
Sean Parnell is The Australian’s health editor.